LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Slielf._._'H5__ 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



m*- 






K 






FLOWERS 



FOR 



r^ 



m 



}J^KJ 1. 



R 




J 




P 



-<A =H= ^ ^ . »H^ 



e; V® 



FLOWERS 



FOR 



MOTHER'S GRAYE; 



OR, 



THOUGHTS ON MOTHER'S LOVE, MOTHER'S DEATH, 

MOTHER'S GRAVE, AND MOTHER'S 

HOME IN HE A VEN. 



COMPILED 

i / 

By JOHH''McCOY, M. D. 



They are gatliering iiome from every land, 
One "by one " 




KANSAS CITY, MO. : 
WEVER & CO., PUBLISHERS, 49 WALES BUILDING. 

1883. 






«»^ 




Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1882, by 

By JOHN McCOY, M. D., 

in the Office of Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C- 




DEDICATION. 



THESE FLOWERS ARE BROUGHT TO MOTHERS GRAVE, 

AND TO HER PRECIOUS MEMORY THIS 

BOOK IS DEDICATED. 




PREFACE. 

AFTER motlier's death, years since, we searcliecl 
diligently for something to read, some book on 
the subjects presented here. We failed to find what 
we wished, and were thus led to gathering the '' flowers 
of thought " which compose this volume. 

The strength of any country consists in its 
homes, and not in its boarding-houses, and hotels. A 
nation of homes is a strong nation ; a nation of hotels 
and boarding-houses is fleeting and temporary. A man 
will flght and die, if need be, for his home; while 
there are but few men who would die, or even flght for 
their boarding-houses. There is no place like home 
The ties of home should be, and usually are, the 
strongest and most sacred of any on earth. Often, in 
the busy street, young people go rushing on until the 
work of the day is over, wholly absorbed in business 
cares; but when night comes on, the heart is apt to 
wander back to — 

''The Old Folks at Home." 

The old house, the familiar walks about the place, the 



VIII PREFACE. 

garden paths, tlie deep, old-fashioned well, the barn 
and the gentle horse, the orchard, the family room and 
the aged ones — and especially the mother — are all called 
up, and the son or daughter is again with the loved 
ones at home. It is true that many a young man goes 
to the city and too soon forgets his father and mother, 
for we own that this is sometimes done ; but they do 
not forget him. The social circle, the ball-room, and 
the theatre occupy his time, and his evenings are spent 
away from his room. If this book falls into the hands 
of such a young man, and it will, we hope he may stop 
and reflect before he leaves his room at night, and 
write a letter home. 

WRITE THEM A LETTER TO-NIGHT. 

"Don't go to the theatre, concert, or ball, 

But stay in your room to-night ; 
Deny yourself to the friends that call^ 

And a good, long letter write — 
Write to the sad old folks at home — 

Who sit when day is done, 
With folded hands and downcast eyes, 

And think of the absent one. 

" Don't selfishly scribble, ' Excuse my haste, 
I've scarcely time to write;' 



PREFACE. IX 

Lest their drooping thoughts go wandering back 

To many a by-gone night — 
When they lost their needed sleep and rest, 

And every breath was a prayer, 
That God w^ould leave their delicate babe 

To their tender love and care. 



^'' Don't let them feel that you've no more need 

Of their love and their counsel wise ; 
For the heart grows strongly sensitive 

When age has dimmed the eyes — 
It might be well to let them believe 

You never forget them quite ; 
That you deem it a pleasure, when far away, 

Long letters home to write. 



^' Don't think that the young and giddy friends 

Who make your pastime gay, 
Have half the anxious thought for you 

That the old folks have to-day. 
The duty of writing do not put off — 

Let sleep or pleasure wait — 
Lest the letter for which they have looked and longed, 

Be a day or an hour too late. 



•^' For the sad old folks at home, 
With locks fast turning white. 



X PREFACE. 

Are longing to hear from the absent one — 
Write them a letter to-night." 

There are no ties so near and dear as the ties of 
the family circle, the ties of home. More tears fall 
around the family hearth for the absent ones, the fallen 
ones, the lost ones, than any place else on earth. " Be 
it ever so humble, there is no place like home ;" and 
the reason is, we know we are loved and cared for at 
home. 

We attended a concert, some years since, given by 
one of our best living artists. The audience was de- 
lighted with the excellent music, and at the close of 
each piece most heartily applauded. The concert was 
well advanced when the artist came on the stage, and 
the piano commenced softly to count off the notes of — 

" Home, Sweet Home."' 
In a moment the large house roared with applause, and 
the singer could scarcely proceed. But the song over^ 
the eager audience called the singer back, and applause- 
again shook the house as a welcome to — 
'' The Old Folks at Home." 
Tears filled the eyes of that vast audience, and many a 
strong man wept like a child, as his thoughts went 
back "home again." 

Parents sometimes think their children do not care 



FEE FACE. XI 

tor them, do not love tliem, because they stay long from 
home, and write but few and short letters; but 
such we do not believe to be the case. That young- 
man, who had not written home for months, sat by a 
beautiful young lady whom he had accompanied to the 
opera, and as — 

'• Home, Sweet Home !" 

floated out over the audience, tears ran down his face 
like rain. Thoughts of his home and the mother that 
he loved, came vividly before his mind, and awakened 
the deepest emotions. 

It is a great mistake for a young man not to write 
often to his mother ; but it is seldom for want of love 
and respect for her that he neglects. to do so. It is 
carelessness. The time will come when he will regret 
that he did not write often, and that he staid so much 
from home. His mother will die some day, and then 
he will reproach himself for this negligence. His care- 
lessness will cost him many a tear. 

If this book has a tendency to strengthen the 
family bond, to encourage charity at home, and to in- 
spire hope for the future, our work will not have been 
in vain. 



COInTTEKTS. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Page. 

Mother ^^ 

MoTHEK, Home, a^td Heaven 21 

A Mother's Lament - . 24 

Mothers. . ■ .... 26 

An Indian Mother's Love 28 

Tired Mothers 31 

A Mother's Heart 33 

A Mother's Gift — The Bible 34 

Mother's Love 36 

The Family Bible 37 

Mother's Good-by 38 

My Place in Childhood 40 

Four Lines by Edgar A. Poe 41 

Mother 42 

My Mother's Voice 44 

Mother's Fingers 45 

A Mother's Love 47 

My Mother's Easy Chair ... 4& 

Mother's Bible 50 

A Mother's Influence 52 

Rock Me To Sleep 55 

Pass Under the Rod 58 

The Childless Mother 59 

I'm Frightened in the Dark 61 

The Brave at Home 63- 

The Little Blue Shoes 64 

Mother's Boys 66 

A Mother's Heart 68 

Queen of Baby-Land 71 

Willy's Grave - 72 

Mother-Love 7S 

The Baby 79 



XIV CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Meditations at the Grave 230 

The Mother's First Grief .... 80 

Maternal Love 82 

My Mother's Song 84 

My Darling's Shoes 86 

A Mother's Love 88 

Is it Thou, Mother ? 92 

Kiss My Eyelids Down To-night 93 

General Garfield's Mother 94 

High, Though Poor 97 

Gone to School 125 

The Three Little Chairs 101 

Mother's Way 104 

Two Graves 106 

Home Influences 108 

The Bald-Headed Tyrant . 112 

The Road is so Lonesome Between 115 

The Old Song 118 

The Sweetest Name 120 

We Shall Sleep, but not Forever 122 

Smile, Mother, Smile • • • 1^3 

Home of Our Childhood 124 

Mother's Wee Man 100 

MOTHER'S DEATH. 

Letter from Phillip Phillips 129 

Mother is Dead 3 30 

One by One 139 

Motherless 141 

My Mother's Prayer 143 

A Father to His Motherless Children 146 

My Mother's Bible 148 

On the Receipt of Mother's Picture 151 

Baptism of an Infant at its Mother's Funeral 157 

The Old Arm-Chair 158 

The Dying Mother 160 

On a Lock of My Mother's Hair 162 

To Mother 163 

My Mother 167 



CONTENTS. XV 

Page. 

My Trundle-Bed 168 

On the Death of a Mother 171 

Mother's Vacant Chair 172 

The Mother Perishing in a Snow-Storm 175 

Dead Mother 177 

The Death-Bed 178 

Death Scene . . 179 

Lips I Have Kissed 180 

Lines by Whittier • • 181 

A Mother's Death 182 

Mother's Love Cannot Die 183 

The Dying Mother 184 

'Twill Be All Eight in the Morning 185 

To My Dead Mother .... 186 

Mother-Love Undying 188 

On Dreaming OF My Mother 189 

Kecollections ... 190 

The Death of Eve 194 

The Old Home Without Mother 199 

Life is Keal, Life is Earnest 200 

My Mother 201 

At Mother's Grave 204 

She is Dying 205 

MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

The Holy Grave 209 

Tribute TO A Mother • • 212 

My Mother 213 

She Always Made Home Happy 214 

My Mother's Grave 216 

Over My Mother's Grave 218 

Meditations 219 

At Mother's Grave , . . . 221 

Low in the Ground 222 

Written at My Mother's Grave 223 

Alone 225 

She Sleeps. . 226 

Nearer Thee ... 229 

Under the Violets 229 



XVI CONTENTS. 

Page, 

Mother 235 

At the Sepulchre . . . 238 

The Farewell to the Dead 243 

Thou Angel Spirit. . . . . 244 

Death and Funeral 245 

My Stricken Heart 246 

Hallowed Ground 247 

Heart-Throbs 248 

The Eepose of the Holy Dead 255 

Saintly Sympathy . . 256 

MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

The Angel of the House 259 

Our Future Home 260 

The Mountains of Life 275 

Hereafter 276 

The Home Over There 277 

Home is Where Mother Is - 278 

There is a World Above 282 

My Mother's Grave . . 283 

Beyond the River 284 

Shall we Know Each Other There ? 285 

Home of the Soul 287 

Crossing Over 288 

My Mother at the Gate • 291 

My Mother • 294 

The Spirit Mother .... 299 

Home 301 






^°^& 




e> 




^-^ 

G 






'N^ 



MO^ 



m 



titit 



h 




ti. 




MOTHER ! 

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOK. 

Professor David Swing. 

AS ill the blade of grass and in tlie smallest herb, the 
first years of our globe gave signs of the coming 
tree ; as in the first drops of rain there was the promise 
of a coming ocean, as in the little garden of Eden there 
lay the prophecy of homes and cities and measureless 
fields, so the earhest instincts and affections of animal 
life were advance heralds of a profound devotion destined 
to appear in the form of a mother's love. Each wild 
beast which to the death would defend its young, each 
bird that screamed and fluttered when an enemy ap- 
proached its nest said in distinct accents that ^s'ature 
w^as preparing the way for a sublime sentiment — the at- 
tachment of a human mother to her children. It is 
proof of the defective civilization of the classics that 
the mother did not hold a high place in the esteem of 



20 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

the great men of that period. It was hi a more ad- 
vanced stage of man that CoAvper sang 

" Oh .hat those lips had language." 

What tears ! what night-watchhig ! what sohcitude ! 
what self-denial! what joy ! Avhat pure affection are in- 
cluded hi the word "Mother!" She literally dies for 
her children. To them she gives all her thoughts and 
powers of mind and body. It is not to be wondered at 
that when writers, sacred or profane, have desired to 
convey some adequate notion of the love of God for 
His universe they have always asked us to look upon a 
mother and her child. In that attachment we find all 
the hights and depths of sentiment, and when human 
thought has compared God to a loving mother it can 
say no more — its richest emblem is then exhausted. 
Sad thought that even our mother must leave us and 
be placed under the sod ! But dying, she is the best 
proof of humortality for her love is too divine to be- 
come dust. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 21 



MOTHER, HOME, AND HEAVEK 

Sue M. Scott. 

THE words of sweetest meaning 
To erring mortals given — 
Of purest, deepest feeling, 

Are Mother, Home, and Heaven I 
The magic name of mother 

Revives in every heart 
The feelings first awakened 

On that dear parent's part ; 
And cold must be the bosom^ 

Devoid of love the soul, 
That is not moved to goodness 

By mother's mild control I 

With home we all remember 

Some vision of the past — 
A May-day in the morning, 

Too beautiful to last ! 
When flowers of lovely beauty 

Beguiled our youth of tears. 



22 MOTHERS L VE. 

Concealing mid the roses 
The thorns of riper years ! 

Yet, when the past is challenged, 
" Wherever we may roam," 

The word that is most eloquent 
Is that dear one of home ! 

The Christian to the future 

His earnest gaze extends, 
While in the brightening distance 

The bow of promise bends ! 
His weary feet have trodden 

The devious paths below ; 
But now the glorious heaven 

With light is all a-glow — 
His cares are nearly over, 

His troubles soon will cease ; 
For smiles of resignation 

Assure us of his peace ! 

Of these three words of beauty 
I know not which is best — 



MOTHERS LOVE. 23 

Tliej speak of love and happiness, 

And one of future rest ! 
I feel that Heaven is dearest, 

And yet I cannot tell. 
For Mother tills the heart with love, 

And Home has charms as well. 
Then let the three united he, 

^ov shall the tie he riven ; 
For words of thrilling melody 

Are Mother, HoxMe, and Heaven. 



-^*^ 




^^ MOTHERS rOVE. 



A MOTHER'S LAMEXT. 

I LOVED thee, daughter of my heart 
My child, I loved thee dearly I 
And though we only met to part I— 

How sweetly ! how severely I 
Nov life nor death can sever 
My soul from thine forever. 

Thy days, my little one, were few ; 

An angel's morning visit, 
That came and vanished with the dew, 

'Twas here— 'tis gone— where is it ? 
Yet didst thou leave behind thee 
A clue for love to find thee. 

Darling ! my last, my youngest love, 

The crown of every other ! 
Though thou art born in heaven above, 

I am thine only mother ! 
]S"or will affection let me 
Believe thou canst forget me. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 



25 



Then — tliou in heaven and I on earth — 
May this onr hope dehght ns, 

That thou wilt hail my second hirth, 
When death shalt reunite us ; 

When worlds no more can sever, 

Mother and child forever. 



-Montgomery 




26 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MOTHERS. 

WHAT a power in the very word. Mother ! ^o 
power can break the spell which a good mother 
throws around her child. He may wander away from 
home, and may even seem for a while to forget a m.other's 
prayer and a mother's kiss ; hut somewhere and some- 
how that lovely face and fond caress will flash upon the 
mind. 

John Randolph said : " I should have been a 
French atheist if it had not been for one recollection, 
and that was that my departed mother used to take my 
little hand in hers, and cause me, on my knees, to say, 
' Our Father which art in heaven.' " 

^o doubt hundreds and thousands of boys have 
been kept back from ruin by the hallowed influence 
which a fond and Godly mother had thrown around 
them in their early childhood. Well do we remember 
the solemn impression once made upon a boy's mind on 
accidentally coming near to where his mother was kneel- 
ing in secret prayer in the evening twilight. As he 



MOTHERS LOVE. 27 

stood as if chained to the spot, he heard the low, earn- 
est entreaties which that mother poured out before the 
mercy seat, that God would bless and save her children. 
If an angel had been whispering in his ear a message of 
mercy, sent direct from before the mediatorial throne, he 
would not have been more fully conscious of the fact 
that Christ was inviting him to his loving embrace. 

Eichter is quoted as having said : " Unhappy the 
m^an whose mother does not make all mothers interest- 
ing." If the mother be true and pure, and interesting 
and gentle, she will ever live in the memory of the child 
as a model of all that is to be desired in the female char- 
acter. And mothers should never forget that they wield 
a poAver which, by the blessing of God, can lead the 
child to a home in heaven. 




28 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



A^ lEDlKE MOTHER'S LOVE. 

OS-HE-OUH-MAI, the wife of Little Wolf, one of the Iowa 
Indians, died while at Paris, of an affection of the lungs, 
brought on by grief for the death of her young child in Lon- 
don. Her husband was unremitting in his endeavors to console and 
restore her to the love of life; but she constantly replied: ''No, 
no ; my four children recall me. I see them by the side of the 
Great Spirit. They stretch out their arms to me, and are astonished 
that I do not join them." 

^^o ! no ! I must depart 
From earth's pleasant scenes, for they but wake 
Those thrilUng memories of the lost which shake 

The life-sands from my heart. 

Why do ye bid me stay ? 
Should the rose linger when the young buds die, 
Or the tree flourish when the branches lie 

Stricken by sad decay ? 

Doth not the parent dove, 
When her young nurslings leave their lowly home 
And soar on joyous wings to heaven's blue dome, 

Fly the deserted grave ? 



MOTHERS LOVE. 29 

Why, then, should I remain ? 
Have I not seen my sweet- voiced warblers soar 
So far away that Love's fond wiles no more 

May lure them back again ? 

They cannot come to me ; 
But I may go to them — and, as the flower 
Awaits the dewy eve, I wait the hour 

That sets my spirit free. 

Hark ! heard ye not a sound 
Sweeter than wild-bird's note or minstrel's lay ? 
I know that music well, for night and day 

I hear it echoin^r round. 

It is the tuneful chime 
Of spirit voices ; — 'tis my infant band 
Calling the mourner from this darkened land 

To Joy's unclouded clime. 

My Ijeautiful, my blest ! 
I see them there, by the Great Spirit's throne ; 



,30 



MOTHERS LOVE. 



With winning words and fond beseeching tone 
They woo me to my rest. 

They chide my long dela}^, 
And wonder that I hnger from their liome ; 
Thev stretch their loving arms to bid me come — 

lso^Y would ye have me stay ? . 

— Heavenly Recognition^ 




MOTHERS LOVE. ^1 



TIRED MOTHERS. 



-Mrs. Albert Smith. 



A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee — 
Your tired knee that lias so much to bear — 
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair ; 
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 

Of warm, moist fingers holding yours so tight, 
You do not prize the blessings overmuch— , 
You are most too tired to pray to-night. 



But it is blessedness ! A year ago 

I did not see it as I do to-day — 
We are all so dull and thankless, and too slow 

To catch the sunshine till it slips away ; 
And now it seems surprising strange to me 

That while I wore the badge of motherhood 
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

The little child that brought me only good. 



82 MOTHERS LOVE, 

And if some night when you sit clown to rest^ 

You miss the elbow on your tired knee — 
This restless curly head from off your l^reast, 

This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ; 
If from your own the dimple hand had slipped, 

And ne'er would nestle in your palm again, 
If the white feet into the grave had tripped — 

I could not blame you for your heart-ache tlien, 



I wonder that some mothers ever fret 

At their precious darlings clinging to their gown 
Or that their foot-prints Avhen the days are ^^^et, 

Are ever black enough to make them frown ; 
If I could find a little muddy boot, 

Or cap, or jacket on my chamber floor— 
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot. 

And hear it patter in my house once more ; 



If I could mend a broken cart to-day, 
To-morrow make a kite to reach the skv, 



MOTHERS LOVE, 33 

There is no woman in God's world could say 
She was more blissfully content than I ; 

Eut ah ! the dainty pillow next my own 
Is never rumpled by a shining head 1 

My singing birdling from its nest has flown — 
My little boy I used to kiss is — dead. 



A MOTHEE'S HEART. 



OIE there be in retrospection's chain 
One link that knits us with young dreams again, 
One thought so sweet, we scarcely dare to muse 
On all the horded rapture it reviews— 
Which seems each instant in its backward range. 
The heart to soften and its ties to chain, 
And every spring, untouched for years, to move — 
It is the memory of a mother's love. 



34 MOTHERS LOVE. 

A MOTHER'S GIET— THE BIBLE. 

REMEMBER, love, who gave thee this 
When other days shall come, 
When she who had thine earliest kiss 

Sleeps in her narrow home ; 
Remember 'twas a mother gave 
This gift to one she'd die to save ! 

That mother sought a pledge of love, 

The holiest for her son. 
And from the gifts of God above. 

She chose a goodly one ; 
She chose for her beloved boy, 
The source of light and life and joy. 

She bade him keep the gift, that when 
The parting hour should come, 

They might have hope to meet again 
In an eternal home : 

She said his faith in this would be 

Sweet incense to her memory. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 35 

And should the scoffer, in his pride, 

Laugh that fond faith to scorn, 
And hid him cast the pledge aside. 

That he from youth had borne, 
She bade him pause and ask his breast 
If she, or he, had loved him best. 

A parent's blessing on her son 

Goes with this holy thing ; 
The love that would retain the one, 

Must to the other cling. 
Remember 'tis no idle toy : 
A mother's gift ! remember boy ! 




36 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MOTHER'S LOYE. 

John S. Held in Gulzer 

BY her my lisping tongue in prayer 
Was taught to bless the God of light, 
Her kindness soothed my childish care, 

And watched my slumbers during night. 
Poor is the immortal sculptor's art. 

The painter's pencil, poet's song, 
Compared to her who moulds the heart 

With plastic hand while pure and young. 
A sister's love is warm and kind, 
A brother's strong as hand of time ; 
And sweet the love of kindred mind, 
But mother, these are not like thine. 

Dear mother from thy home above. 
Still come and bless me with thy love. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 37 



THE FAMILY BIBLF. 

WHAT household thoughts around thee as their 
shrine, 
Cling reverently ! of anxious looks beguiled, 

My mother's eyes upon thy page divine, 
Each day were bent ; — her accents gravely mild. 
Breathed out thy lore, whilst I, a dreaming child. 

Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away, 
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild. 

Some fresh discovered nook for woodland play. 
Some secret nest ; — yet would the solemn word 
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, 

Fall on my waken'd spirit, there to be 
A seed not lost ; — for which in darker years, 
O book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful tears. 

Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 

— Mrs. Jlemans. 



33 MOTHER'S LO VE. 

MOTHER'S GOOD-BY. 

SIT down by the side of your mother, my boy, 
You have only a moment I know ; 
But you win stay 'till I give you my parting advice, 
'Tis all that I have to bestow. 

You leave us to seek for employment, my boy, 

By the world you have yet to be tried ; 
But in all the temptations and struggles you meet, 

May your heart in your Savior conHde. 

Hold fast to the right, hold fast to the right, 

Wherever your footsteps may roam, 
Oh, forsake not the way of salvation, my boy, 

That you learned from your mother at home. 

You'll find in your satchel a Bible, my boy, 

'Tis a book of all others the best ; 
It will teach you to live, and help you to die, 

And lead to the o:ates of the blest. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 39 

I gave you to God, in your cradle, my boy, 
I liave taught you the best that I know ; 

And as long as his mercy permits me to live, 
I shall never cease praying for you. 

Your father is coming to bid you good-by. 

Oh, how lonely and sad we shall be ; 
But when from the scenes of your childhood and youth, 

You'll think of your father and me. 

I want you to feel every word I have said. 
For it comes from the depths of my love ; 

And, my boy, if we never behold you on earth, 
Will you promise to meet us above ! 




40 MOTHERS LOVE. 



MY PLACE IK CHILDHOOD. 

S. Lover. 

THERE was a place in childhood, that I remember 
well, 
And there a voice of sweetest tone, bright fairy tales 

did tell, 
And gentle words, and fond embrace, were given with 

joy to me, 
When I was in that happy place upon my mother's 

knee. 

When fairy tales were ended, " good-night," she softly 

said. 
And kissed and laid me down to sleep upon my tiny bed. 
And holy words she taught me there ; methinks I yet 

can see 
Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother's knee. 

In the sickness of my childhood, the perils of my prime, 
The sorrows of my riper years, the cares of every time^ 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 41 

When doubt and danger weigh me down, then plead- 
ing all for me, 

it was a fervent prayer to Heaven that bent my mother's 
knee. 



FOUK LmES BY EDGAR A. POE. 

ILOYE to feel that in the heavens above, 
The angels whispering to one another, 
Can find among their burning words of love 
E"o name so beautiful as that of mother. 



42 MOTHERS LOVE. 



MO THEE. 

OF all the words cherished in the recollection of 
man — of all the names held sacred in his memory, 
that of vwther falls upon his heart with the most sublime 
influence. How sweet the recollection in after years of 
a mother's tender training ; and who is there that flnds 
no relief in recurring to the scenes of his infancy and 
youth, gilded with the recollection of a mother's tender- 
ness. And how many have nobly owned that to the 
salutary influence, then exerted, they must ascribe their 
future success, their avoidance of evil, when no eyes 
were upon them, but Avhen rested on the heart, the ^yixvn- 
ings, the prayers, and tears of a mother. 

The father may be tenderly loved, and all the affec- 
tions of the heart may be drawn out to him who blessed 
us before reason dawned upon our minds, or our infant 
lips could speak his name; but still a mother's prayers 
and a mother's entreaties will survive the discordant ele- 
ments of the world, after every other vestige of better 
days shall have been obliterated from the mind. Others 



MOTHERS LOVE. 43 

may love us fondly, but never again while time is ours 
-shall any one's love be to us as fond, as tender, as de- 
voted, as was that of our dear old trembling mother. 
Through helpless infancy her throbbing heart was our 
^safe protection and support, and through the ills and 
maladies of childhood her gentle hand ministered and 
soothed as none other could. I feel animated to strug- 
gle more manfully in the great battle of life, when I re- 
member my mother's holy counsel to me in childhood's 
•early dawn, and in the slippery paths of youth. Ah ! 
those words of tenderness — those pious precepts soften- 
ed by a "mother's love" — too much unheeded then, 
and disregarded — live now, brightened in memory, and 
constitute my sweetest recollections. Her prayers ' for 
-me in childhood — her sparkling crystal tears — made an 
impression on my young mind, as durable as time, and 
even now they bid me walk in the paths of rectitude. 
And shall I be faithless to my mother? Heaven 

J^ORBID ! 



44 MOTHERS LOVE. 



MY MOTHER'S VOICE. 



M" 



N. P. Willis. 
Y mother's voice, how often creeps 
Its cadence o'er my lonely hours, 
Like heahng sent on wings of sleep, 
Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 
I can't forget her melting prayer, 

Even while my pulses madly fly ; 
And in the still, unbroken air, 

Her gentle tones come stealing by ; 
And years, and sin, and manhood flee, 
And leave me at my mother's knee. 




MOTHERS LOVE. 45 



MOTHER'S FmGERS. 



Jessie M. Saxby< 

MOTHER'S useful fingers, sewing dainty seams, 
While her faith is brooding over hopeful dreams, 
While her heart is happy in a dawning love, 
Deftly move her fingers for the coming dove. 

Mother's feeble fingers, fluttering slow and mild. 
O'er the tiny features of her welcome child, 
Stroking cherub dimples, smoothing ruffled hair, 
Tending baby treasures with unrivaled care. 

Mother's busy Angers working late and long, 
8mall and soft and tender, only through love strong, 
Swiftly working wonders, never idly still, 
Ohildren's bread and raiment, rousing parent's skill. 

Mother's loving fingers raising up the weak. 
Passing cold and gentle, o'er the fevered cheek. 
Soothing sick and weary, like a touch of dew. 
Lifting sinking spirits to their life anew. 



46 . MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Mother's pious lingers, turning o'er and o'er 
All the glowing pages of our sacred lore ! 
Falling on the young brows with a blessing fraught, 
Mute and earnest, when her God was sought. 

Mother's faithful fingers, stretching through the cloud, 
Beckoning back the wanderer and the sinful bow'd, 
ClasjDing hands that virtue scarce will touch agaui, 
Clinging to the fallen, heedless of each stain. 

Mother's tender fingers guiding failing eyes, 
Holding all the closer as the darling dies ; 
Lingering o'er each duty to the passive form, 
Shrouding silent features from the sun and storm. 

Mother's lifeless fingers folded on her breast. 
All their duty ended, laid at last to rest ; 
^N'oble work accomplished, quiet fingers cold, 
Laid in peaceful silence 'mid the coffin mould. 

Mother's angel fingers working golden strings 
Where, a holy harper, sweet her spirit sings ; 
Pointing out the sky-way, leading those who come. 
Dear immortal fins^ers, in the Father's home. 



MO TREES L VE. 47 



A MOTHEE'S LOVE. 

A MOTHER'S love ! oh, soft and low 
As the tremulous notes of the lone dove's call, 
Or the murmur of waters that gently flow, 
On the weary heart those accents fall ! 

A mother's love ! the sacred thought 

Unseals the hidden fount of tears, 
As if the frozen waters caught 

The pui^ple light of earlier years. 

A mother's love ! oh, 'tis the dew 

Which nourished life's drooping flowers, 

And fitteth them to bloom anew 

'Mid fairer scenes — in brighter bowers. 



48 MOTHERS LOVE. 

MY MOTHER'S EASY CHAIR. 

Si'Tiey Dyer. 

THE days of my youth have all silently sped, 
And my locks are now grown thin and gray, 
My hopes like a dream in the morning have fled, 

And nothing remains hut decay. 
Yet I seem hut a child as I was long ago, 

"When I stood hy the form of my sire. 
And my dear mother sang as she rocked to and fro 
In the old easy chair hy the lire. 

Oh, she was my guardian and guide all the day, 

And the angel who watched round my hed ; 
Her voice in a murmur of prayer died away. 

For hlessings to rest on my head. 
Then I thought ne'er an angel that heaven could know. 

Though trained in its, own peerless choir. 
Could sing like my mother who rocked to and fro 

In the old easy chair hy the fire. 

How holy the place as we gathered at night 
Round the altar where peace ever dwelt. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 4.-) 

To join in an anthem of praise, and unite 

In thanks which our hearts truly felt. 
In his sacred old seat, with his locks white as snow, 

Sat the venerable form of our sire, 
While my dear mother sang as she rocked to and fro 

In the old easy chair by the iire. 

The cottage is gone which my infancy knew. 
And the place is despoiled of its charms, 

My friends are all gathered beneath the old }'ew. 
And slumber in death's folded arms ; 

I3ut often with rapture my bosom doth glow 

. As I think of my home and my sire, 

And the dearest of mothers who sang long ago 
In the old easy chair by the tire. 




50 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MOTHER'S BIBLE. 

George P. Morris. 

THIS book is all that's left me now ! 
Tears will unbidden start, — 
With faltering lip and throbbing brow, 

I press it to my heart. 
For many generations past, 
Here is our family tree ; 
My mother's hand this Bible clasped ! 
She, dying, gave it me. 



Ah ! well do I remember those 

Whose names these records bear, 
Who round the hearth-stone used to close 

After the evening prayer. 
And speak of what those pages said, 

In tones my heart would thrill ! 
Though they are with the sainted dead, 

Here are they living still ! 



MOTHERS LOVE. 51 

My father read this holy book 

To brothers, sisters dear ; 
How cahn was my poor mother's look, 

Who learned God's word to hear. 
Her angel face, I see it yet ! 

What thronging memories come ; 
Again that little group is met 

Within the halls of home ! 

Thou truest friend man ever knew, 

Thy constancy I've tried ; 
When all were false I found thee true. 

My counselor and guide. 
The mines of earth no treasure give 

That could this volume buy ; 
In teaching me the way to live, 

It taught me how to die. j 



52 MOTHERS LOVE. 



A MOTIIEE'S mFLUE^CE. 

John B. Gough. 

IK^OW myself the results of mv own Sabbath- 
school instruction, and I remember the teachings 
of a praying mother. That mother taught me to pray 
in early life — gave me the habit of praying ; the teacher 
at the Sabbath-school strengthened it ; they stored my 
mind with passages of Scripture, and these things, I tell 
you, young man, we do not entirely forget. They may 
be buried, they may be laid away for a time in some ob- 
scure corner of the heart, but by and by circumstances 
will show that we know much more than we thought. 
After that mother's death I went out into the world, ex- 
posed to its manifold temptations. I fell ; I acquired 
bad habits. For seven years of my life I wandered 
over God's beautiful earth like an unblessed spirit wan- 
dering over a barren desert, digging deep wells to quench 
.my thirst and bringing up the dry hot sand. 

Bound with the fetters of evil habits, habits like an 
iron net encircling me in its folds — fascinated with my 
bondage, and yet with a desire, how fervent 1 to stand 



MOTHERS LOVK . 53 

where I once hoped to stand. " Ah," said one, "what 
is the effect of a mother's teaching and a mother's 
prayers, of the Sunday-school, and of early good habits ? " 
! I stood there, I remember it well, feeling my 
own weakness, and thinking that the way of the trans- 
gressor is hard ; knowing that the wages of sin is death ; 
feeling in the great deep of my heart all the bitterness 
that arises from the consciousness of powers wasted and 
opportunities lost ; conscious that I had been chasing 
mere bubbles and gained nothing. There I stood. 
That mother had passed to heaven, but her Avords came 
back to my mind. I remember, when one night in 
our garret the candle was failing, that she said : " John, 
I am growing blind, and I don't mind it much. But 
you are young, it is hard for you. But never mind, 
John, Avhere I am going there is no night. There is no 
need of any candle there, the Savior is the light thereof." 
She has changed the dark gloomy garret to bask in the 
sunshine of her Savior's smiles. But her influence was 
not lost. As I stood feeling my own weakness, know- 
ing that I could not resist temptation, it seemed as if 
the very light she left as she passed, had spanned tlie 



54 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



dark gap of seven years of sin and dissipation and struck 
the heart and opened it. I felt utterly my own weak- 
ness, and the passages of Scripture that were stored 
away in my mind came as if whispered again into my 
ear by the loving hps of that mother. Made strong by 
the recollection of her teaching and her prayers, I fled 
from the ways that lead down to death and was saved, 
saved through the influence of a mother's love. 




MOTHERS LOVE. 55 



EOCK ME TO SLEEP. 

Mrs. Elizabeth Akers Alien. 

BACKWARD, turn backward, Time! in your 
flight, 
Make me a child again just for to-night ! 
^Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
Take me again to your arms as of yore. 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 



Backward, ily backward, swift tide of years ! 
I am weary of toil, I am weary of tears I 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, 
Take them and give me my childhood again ! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay. 
Weary of flinging my soul- wealth away, 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 



56 MOTHERS LOVE. 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. 
Mother, mother, my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed, and faded, our faces between ! 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain, 
Long I to-night for your presence again ! 
Come from the silence so long and so deep, — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Over my heart in days that are flown, 

No love like mother love ever has shone, 

]^o other worship abides and endures 

Faithful, unselflsh, and patient like yours ; 

l^one like a mother can charm away pain 

From the sorrowing soul and the world-weary brain ; 

Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy hds creep ; 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Come let your brown hair just lighted with gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
Let it fall over my forehead to-night, 
Shielding my eyes from the flickering light ; 



MOTHERS LOVE. 57 

For oh ! with its sunny-edged shadows once more, 
Happy will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
Since last I was hushed by your lullaby song, 
Sing then again, — to my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream ; 
Clasped to your arms in a loving embrace, 
With your soft light lashes just sweeping my face, 
Xever hereafter to wake or to weep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 




58 MOTHERS LOVE, 

PASS u:n'der the rod. 

I SAW a young mother in tenderness bend 
O'er the couch of her slumbermg boy, 
And she kissed the soft hps as she murmured his name, 

While the dreamer lay silent in joy. 
Oh, sweet is the rose-bud encircled with dew. 

When its fragrance is flung on the air. 
So fresh and so bright to that mother he seem'd. 

As he lay in his innocence there. 
Eut I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form, 

Pale as marble, and silent, and cold, 
Eut paler and colder her beautiful boy, 

And the tale of her sorrow w^as told ! 
Eut the Healer was there who had stricken her heart 

And taken her treasure away, 
To allure her to heaven he has placed it on-high, 

And the mourner will sweetly obey. 
There had whispered a voice — 'twas the voice of her God, 
^' I love thee — I love thee — pass under the rod ! " 



MOTHERS LOVE. 59 

THE CHILDLESS MOTHER. 

Mary Clemmer Ames- 

I LAY my tasks down one by one, 
I sit in the silence of twilight grace ; 
Out in the shadow soft and drear 
Steals like a star my baby's face. 

Mockingly cold are the world's poor joys, 
How poor to me all its pomp and pride ; 

In my lap lie the baby's idle toys, 
In this very room the baby died. 

I will shut these broken toys away. 
Under the lid where they mutely bide ; 

I will smile in the face of noisy day, 
Just as if baby had never died. 

I will take up my work once more. 

As if I had never laid it down ; 
Who will dream that I ever wore 

Motherhood's fine and holy crown ? 



60 MOTHERS LOVE. 

Who will dream my life ever bore 
Fruit the sweeter in grief and pain ? 

The flitting smile that the baby wore 
Outrayed the light of the loftiest brain. 

I'll meet the man in the world's rude din 
Who hath outlived his mother's kiss, 

Who hath forsaken her love for sin — 
I will be spared her pain in this. 

Man's way is hard and sin-beset ; 

Many must fall, but few can win — 
Thanks, dear Shepherd ! my lamb is safe^ 

Safe from sorrow, and safe from sin. 

Nevertheless the way is long, 

And tears leap up in the light of the sun ;, 
I'd give my world for a cradle song, 

And a kiss from baby — only one. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 61 

TM FEIGHTEE'ED IN" THE DARK. 

WE sat within a lighted room, 
My baby-boy and I ; 
But emi:)ty were my loving arms, 

Where he was wont to lie 
And look up fondly in my face, 

Eor pretty toys were near ; 
And though I called him lovingly, 
The darling would not hear. 

I yearned to clasp him to my heart. 

But wooed him all in vam, 
To leave his play and come to me 

Would give him too much pain. 
I took the candle in my hand, 

And, with a breath of air, 
Extinguished its soft, cheerful light. 

And made all darkness there. 

And soon I heard a sweet-toned voice 
To which I love to hark, 



62 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

Cry, '' Mother, take me in your arms I 
I'm frightened in the dark ;" 

And then I caught the sweet boy up 
And felt him clasp me tight, 

And knew that I was needed then. 
Because there was no light. 

And as my darling grew in years, 

The brightness of my joy 
Made me adore our Father less 

Than I adored my boy. 
He called me in a tender tone — 

His voice is always mild — 
But I refused to go to him. 

And played on with my child. 

And then he blew my candle out 
By stopping Harry's breath ; 

And in the anguish of that grief 
And darkness of that death, 

I cried out in a trembling voice 



MOTHERS LOVE. 63 

And with an aching brow : 
" I'm coming to thee, my God ! 
For my heart needs thee now ! " 

—By the author of Little Folks. 



THE BEAYE AT HOME. 

Thomas B. Read. 

THE mother who conceals her grief 
When to her breast her son she presses, 
Then breathes a few brave words and brief, 

Kissing the patriot brow she blesses. 
With no one bnt her secret God 

To know the pain that weighs npon her, 

Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod 
Keceived on freedom's field of honor. 



^4 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



THE LITTLE BLUE SHOES. 

Wm. 0. Bennett 

OH those little, those httle blue shoes ! 
Those shoes that no little feet use. 
Oh, the price were high 
That those shoes would buy, 
Those little blue unused shoes ! 



Eor they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eye meet, 
That, by God's good will, 
Years since greAV still, 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 



And oh, since that baby slept, 
80 hushed, how the mother has kept. 
With a tearful pleasure. 
That dear little treasure. 
And o'er them thought and wept ! 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 65 

For they mind her evermore 
Of a patter along the floor, 

And bhie eyes she sees 

Look up from her knees, 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there, 
There babbles from chair to chair 

A little sweet face 

That's a gleam in the place, 
With its little gold curls of hair. 

Then oh, wonder not that her heart 
From all else would rather part 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use, 
And whose sight make such fond tears start. 



66 MOTHERS LOVE. 



MOTHER'S BOYS. 



YES, I know there are stains on my carpet, 
The traces of small, muddy boots; 
And I see your fair tapestry glowing, 
And spotless with flowers and fruits. 

And I know that my walls are disflgured 
With prints of small Angers and hands ; 

And that your own household most truly 
In immaculate purity stands. 

And I know that my parlor is littered 
With many old treasures and toys, 

While your own is in daintiest order, 
Unharmed by the presence of boys. 

And I know that my room is invaded 
Quite boldly all hours of the day ; 

While you sit in yours unmolested 
And dream the soft quiet away. 



MOTHERS LOVE. G7 

Yes, I know there are four little bedsides 
Where I must stand watchful each night, 

While you go out in your carriage. 
And flash in your dresses so bright. 

^N^ow, I think I'm a neat little woman ; 

And I like my house orderly, too ; 
And am fond of all dainty belongings. 

Yet would not change places with you. 

'No ! keep your fair home with its order, 

Its freedom from bother and noise ; 
And keep your own fanciful leisure. 

But give me my four splendid boys. 




68 MOTHEES LOVE. 



A MOTHER'S HEAET. 

Caroline Nwton. 

WHEN first thou comest, gentle, shy, and fond. 
My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure. 
My heart received thee with a joy beyond 

All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 
Is'or thought that any love again might be 
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, 
And natural piety that leaned to heaven ; 

Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, 
Yet patient to rebuke when justly given ; 

Obedient, easy to be reconciled, 

And meekly cheerful ; such wert thou, my child ! 

Kot willing to be left — still by my side, 

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying ; 
Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide 

Through the dark room where I was sadly lying ; 



MOTHERS LOVE. 69 

Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, 
Watch the dim eye, or kiss the fevered cheek. 

hoy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, 

'^o strength in all thy freshness, prone to fade. 
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower ; 

Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, 

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind ! 

Then thou, my merry love, — bold in thy glee. 
Under the bough, or by the flre-light dancing. 

With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, — 
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing. 

Full of wild and irrepressible mirth. 

Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth ! 

Tliine Avas the shout, the song, the burst of joy. 
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth; 

Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy. 

And the glad heart from which all 2^rief reboundeth; 



70 MOTHER'S LOVE, 

And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. 

And thine was many an art to win and bless, 

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming ; 

The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress, 

The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! 

Again my heart a new affection found, 

But thou£:ht that love with thee had reached its bound. 

At length thou camest — thou, the last and least, 

Nicknamed " The Emperor" b}^ thy laughing brothers. 

Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast. 

And thou didst seek to rule and sway tlie others. 

Mingling Avitli every playful infant wile 

A mimic majesty that made us smile. 

And O, most like a regal child wert thou ! 

An eye of resolute and successful scheming ! 
Fair shoulders, curling lips, and dauntless brow. 

Fit for the Avorld's strife, not for poet's dreaming ; 



MOTHERS LOVE. 71 

And proud the lifting of thy state!}' liead, 
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. 

Different from both ! yet each succeeding chiim 
I, that all other love had been forswearing, 

Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 
ISoY injured either by this love's comparing, 

Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, — 

Eut in the mother's heart found room for alll 



queej^ of baby land. 

WHO is queen of baby land ? 
Mother kind and sweet, 
And her love, born above, 
Guides the little feet. 



72 MOTHERS LOVE. 



WILLY'S GRAVE. 



T 



Edwin Waugh^ 

(HE frosty wind was wailing wild across the wintry 
Avorld ; 
The cloudless vault of heaven was bright with studs of 

gleaming gold ; 
The weary cotter's heavy lids had closed with closing 

^^ay, 
And on his silent hearth a tinge of dying iire-light lay. 

The ancient hamlet seemed asfeep beneath the starry sky ; 
A little river sheathed in ice came gliding gently by, 
The gray church in the grave-yard Avhere the " rude 

forefathers lay," 
Stood hke a mother waiting till her children came from 

play. 

No footstep trod the tiny town, the drowsy street was 

still, 
Save when the Avandering night wind sang its requiem 

wild and shrill. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 73 

The stainless snow lay thick upon those quauit old cot- 
tage eaves, 

And wreaths of fairy frost-work hung where grew last 
summer's leaves. 

Each village home was dark and still, and closed was 

every door. 
For gentle sleep had twined her arms around both rich 

and poor, — 
Save in one little cot, where, by a candle's flickering ray,, 
A childless mother sighing sat, and combed her locks 

of gray. 

Her husband and her children all were in the last cold 

bed. 
Where, one by one, she'd laid them down, and left them 

with the dead ; 
Then toiling on towards her rest — a lonely pilgrim she — 
For God and poverty were now her only company. 

Upon the shady window-sill a well worn Bible lay ; 
Against the wall a coat had hung for many a Aveary day ^ 



74 MOTHERS LOVE. 

I 
And on the scanty table-top with crumbs of supper 

strewn, 

There stood beside a porringer, two little empty slioon. 

The fire was waning in thegrate,the spinnhig- wheel at rest, 
Tlie cricket's song rang loudly in that lonely woman's nest, 
As with her napkin thin and worn, and Avet with many 

a tear, 
She wiped the little pair of shoonher darling used to wear. 

Her widowed heart had often leaped to hear his prattle 
small; 

He was the last that she had left, the dearest of them all ; 

And as she rocked her to and fro while tears came drop- 
ping do\A^n, 

She sighed and cried, " 0, Willy love, these little empty 
■ shoon ! " 

With gentle hand slie laid them by, she laid them by 

with care, 
Nor Willy ho was in his grave, and all her thoughts were 

there ; 



MO THEKS LO VE. 75 

She paused before she dropped the snick that closed her 

lambless fold, 
It grieved her heart to bar the door and leave him in 

the cojd. 

A threadbare cloak she wrapped around her limbs so 

thin and chill; 
She left her lonely cot behind whilst all the world was 

still ; 
And through the solitary night she took her silent 

way 
AVith weeping eyes, toward the spot where little Willy 

lay. 

The pale cold moon had climbed aloft into the welkin 

blue, 
A snow-clad tree across the grave its leafless shadows 

threw ; 
And as that mournful mother sat upon a mound therebv, 
The bitter wind of winter sio^hed to hear her AvaiUno- 

ciy. 



76 MOTHERS LOVE. 

" My little Willy's cowed an' still ! He's not a cheep 

for me ! 
Til' last leaf has dropt, th' last tiny leaf that cheered 

this withered tree. 
Oh, my poor heart? my comfort's gone, aAv'm lonely 

under th' sky ! 
[le'll never chip my cheek again, and tell me not to 

cry!" 

''Xipt-]iipt i' th' hud, an' laid i' th' dust, my little 

Willy's dead. 
And a' that made me cling to life lies in this frosty 

hed, — 
He's gone! He's gone ! My poor hare nest ! What's 

a' this world to me ! 
My darlin' lad! aw'm lonely neaw; when mun aw come 

to thee ? " 

" He's crept into this last dark nook, and left me pinin- 

here ! 
An' never moore his two hlue e'en for me mun twinkle 

clear, 



MOTHERS LOVE. 77 

He'll never lisp his prayers again at his poor mammy's 

knee; 
Oh, Willy ! oh aw'm lonely neaw, when mun aw come 

to thee?" 

The snow-clacl yew-tree stirred with pain, to hear tha 

plaintive cry ; 
The old church listened, and the spire kept pointino- to 

the sk}^ ; 
With kindlier touch the hitter wind played in her locks 

of gray. 
And the queenly moon upon her head shone with a 

softened ray. 

She rose to leave that lonely bed, her heart was grieving 

sore, — 
One step she took and then her tears fell faster than 

before ; 
She turned and gave another look, — one lingering look 

she gave, — 
Then sighing left him lying in his little wintry grave. 



MOTHERS LOVE, 



MOTIIER-LOYE. 



I 



F. T. Morgan, 

GAVE my maiden-love tender and shy, 
And yet I was sad. Why ? why ? 



I gave my wife-love pure and true, 
And yet — and yet I was longing too ! 

God gave me mother-love warm and strong, 
And my sadness was lost in my lullaby song. 



}1 ATHER, we will be comforted ! 
Thou wast the gracious giver ! 
We yield her up — not dead, not dead— 

To dwell with thee forever. 
Take thou our child, — ours for a day^ 

Thine while the ages blossom. 
This little shining head we lay 
In the Redeemer's bosom. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 79 



THE BABY. 

IF we knew the baby fingers, 
Pressed against the window pane, 
Would be cold and stiff to-morrow — 

Xever trouble us again — 
"Would the bright eyes of our darling 
Catch the frown upon our brow ? — 
Would the prints of rosy fingers 
Vex us then as they do now ? 

Ah ! those little ice-cold fingers, 

How they point our memories back 
To the hasty words and actions 

Strewn along our backward track ! 
How those little hands remind us, 

As in snowy grace they lie, 
Not to scatter thorns — but roses — 

For our reaping by and by. 



so 310 THEM'S LOVE. 

THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF. 

Robert Smyth Chilton. 

SHE sits beside the cradle, 
And her tears are streaming fast. 
For she sees the present only, 

While she thinks of all the past : 
Of the days so full of gladness. 

When her first-born's answering kiss 
Thrilled her soul with such a rapture 

That it knew no other bliss. 
O those happy, happy moments ! 

They but deepen her despair ; 
For she bends above the cradle. 

And her baby is not there ! 

There are words of comfort spoken, 
And the leaden clouds of grief 

Wear the smiling bow of promise, 
And she feels a sad relief; 

IBut her wavering thoughts will wander, 
Till they settle on the scene 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 81 

Of the dark and silent chamber, 
And of all that might have been. 

For a little vacant garment, 
Or a shining tress of hair, 

Tells her heart, in tones of anguish. 
That her baby is not there ! 

She sits beside the cradle, 

But her tears no longer flow, 
For she sees a blessed vision, 

And forgets all earthly woe ; 
Saintly eyes look down upon her, 

And the Voice that hushed the sea 
Stills her spirit with the whisper 

" Suffer them to come to Me." 
And Avhile her soul is lifted 

On the soanng wings of prayer, 
Heaven's crystal gates sAving inward, 

And she sees her baby there ! 



82 MOTHERS LOVE. 

MATERNAL LOVE. 

Alexander Bethune^ 

UNLIKE all other things earth knows, 
(All else may fade or change), 
The love in a mother's heart that glows, 

Naught earthly can estrange. 
Concentrated and strong, and bright, 

A vestal flame it glows 
With pure, self-sacrificing light. 

Which no cold shadow knows. 
All that by mortal can he done 
''A mother ventures for her son ; 
If marked by worth or merit high, 

Her bosom beats with ecstacy ; 

And though he own nor worth nor charm, 

To him her faithful heart is warm. 

Though wayward passions round him close,. 

And fame and fortune prove his foes ; 

Through every change of good and ill, 

Unchanged, a mother loves him still. 

Even love itself, than life more dear, — 



MOTHERS LOVE. 



83 



Its interchange of hope and fear ; 
Its feelmg oft akin to madness ; 
Its fevered joys, and anguish-sadness; 
Its melting moods of tenderness, 
xVnd fancied wrongs, and fond redress, 
llath naught to form so strong a tie 
As her deep sympathies supply. 




84 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



MY MOTHER'S SONG. 

THIS quiet autumn evening, out through the autumn 
gloom, 
My thoughts are fondly turning to thee, my dear old 

home ; 
And through the misty distance the years seem sad and 

long. 
Since 'neath the roof in childhood, I heard my mother's 

song ;— 

A sweet old simple ballad, whose notes were soft and 

low, 
Still o'er the heart its echo in soothing numbers flow, 
'Though in the grave's dark chambers, the lips are silenl 

long, 
'That by the hearth at even oft sang my mother's song. 

'Oh, mother ! though long parted, the memory of thy 

love 
Illumes life's darkest shadows, and points to light above ; 



MOTHERS LOVE, 85 

It nerves us in our trials to suffer and be strong — 
The sunny clays of childhood come back with that old 
song. 

On the sad soul, in hours of weariness and pain, 
It falls as on the flowers falls the softest summer rain ; 
And when temptation beckons into the path of wrong, 
In notes of gentle Avarning I hear my mother's song. 

That dear old song must ever And an echo in my heart, 
'Till by death's icy fingers its chords are snapped apart ; 
One strain would still be wanting the angel choirs 

among 
If there the voice was silent that sang my mother's 

song. 




86 MOTHERS LQVE. 



MY DAELES^G'S SHOES. 



G' 



OD bless the little feet that can never go astray, 
For the little shoes are empty, in my closet laid 
- away. 
I sometimes take one in my hand, forgetting till I see 
It is a little half-worn shoe, and much too small for me ; 
And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain, 
And sharp as when, two years ago, it cut my heart in 
twain. 

Oh, little feet, that weary not, I wait for them no more, 
For I am drifting on the tide, and they have reached 

the shore ; 
And while the blinding tear-drops wet these little shoes 

so old, 
I try to think my darling's feet are treading streets of 

gold : 
And then I lay them down again, but always turn and 

say, 
God bless the little feet that now so surely cannot strav. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 87 

And while I tlius iim standing, I almost seem to see 
The little form beside me just as it used to be; 
The little face uplifted, with its soft and tender eyes — 
Ah, me ! I might have known that look was born for 

Paradise. 
I reach my arms out fondly, but they clasp the empty 

air, 
For there is nothing of my darling but the shoes he 

used to wear. 

Oh ! the bitterness of parting cannot be done away 
Until I meet my darling, where his feet can never stray ; 
When I no more am drifted upon the surging tide, 
But with him safely landed upon the river-side. 
Be patient, heart ! while waiting to see the shining way, 
For the little feet in the shining street can never go 
astray. 

— Anonymous. 



88 MO THEM'S LOVE, 



A MOTHER'S LOYE. 



James Montgomery^ 

A MOTHER'S love, — how sweet the name ! 
What is a mother's love ? — 
A noble, pure, and tender ilame, 

Enkindled from above, 
To bless a heart of earthly mould ; 
A warmer love than can grow cold ; 
This is a mother's love. 

To bring a helpless babe to light, 

Then, while it lies forlorn. 
To gaze upon that dearest sight, 

And feel herself new-born, 
In its existence lose her own, 
And live and breathe in it alone ; 

This is a mother's love. 

Its weakness in her arms to bear ; 

To cherish on her breast, 
Feed it from love's own fountain there, 



MOTHERS LOVE, 89- 

And lull it there to rest ; 
Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath, 
As if to guard from instant death ; 

This is a mother's love. 

To mark its growth from day to day, 

Its opening charms admire, 
Catch from its eye the earliest ray 

Of intellectual fire ; 
To smile and listen while it talks. 
And lend a finger when it walks ; 

This is a mother's love. 

And can a mother's love grow cold ? 

Can she forget her boy ? 
His pleading innocence behold, 

^or weep for grief — for joy ? 
A mother may forget her child, 
While wolves devour it on the wild ; 

Is this a mother's love ? 

Ten thousand voices answer, " ^o ! " 
Ye clasp your babes and kiss ; 



90 MOTHERS LOVE. 

Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow ; 

Yet, all 1 remember this, — 
The infant, reared alone for earth, 
May live, may die, — to curse his birth ; — 

Is this a mother's love ? 

A parent's hand may prove a snare ; 

The child she loves so well. 
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care, 

Down the smooth road to hell ; 
:N'ourish its frame,— destroy its mind : 
Thus do the bhnd mislead the blind. 

Even with a mother's love. 

Elest infant ! whom his mother taught 

Early to seek the Lord, 
And poured upon his dawning thought 

The day-spring of the word ; 
This was the lesson to her son — 
Time is eternity begun : 

Behold that mother's love. 



MOTHERS LOVE., 91 

Blest mother ! who, in wisdom's path, 

By her own parent trod. 
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath. 

And know the fear of God : 
Ah, youth! hke him enjoy your prime ; 
Begin eternity in time, 

Taught by that mother's love. 

That mother's love! — how sweet the name! 

What was that mother's love ? — 
The noblest, purest, tenderest flame. 

That kindles from above. 
Within a heart of earthly mould, 
As much of heaven as heart can hold, 
-Nor through eternity grows cold : 

This was that mother's love. 



92 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



IS IT THOU, MOTHER? 

L01N"G years ago she visited my chamber, 
Steps soft and slow, a taper in her hand,. 
Her fond kiss she laid upon my eyelids. 

Fair as an angel from the unknown land ; 
Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? 
Mother, mother, watching over me. 

And yesterday night I saw her cross my chamber- 
Soundless and light, a palm branch in her hand -^ 

Her mild eyes bent upon my anguish, 
Calm as an angel from the blessed land ; 

Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? 

Mother, mother, art thou come for me? 



MOTHERS LOVE. 93 



:e:iss my eyelids dow:^' to-otght. 

KISS me, mother, kiss me gently, 
Kiss my eyelids down to-night, 
I'm so lonely, and without you 
Cannot say my prayers aright. 

Kiss ray eyelids, loving mother. 

As you did in days long gone 
When I slept upon your hosom, 

Kiss them, mother, just once more. 

iSing to me, my darling mother. 

Sing your softest lullaby ; 
Let me dream that I am sitting 

Once again upon your knee. 

Xet my dreams be all about you, 
Let them all be pure and bright, 

Jj^t me dream that you will always 
Kiss my eyelids down at night. 



94 MOTHEEii LOVE, 



GENERAL GARFIELD'S MOTHER. 

WHEN James A. Gai^eld was a child, when he was 
a grown up boy, and when he was a young 
man, his mother's love prompted her to toil and care for 
liim, and to lead him in the ways of truthfulness and up- 
rightness. In return for her faithful toil and love and 
care, he labored to make her happy, and to do her honor. 

When Garfield was inaugurated President of the 
United States, on the 4th of March, 1880, after he had 
taken the oath of ofiice in the presence of many thou- 
sand people, he kissed the Holy Bible, and then turned 
and kissed his aged mother, and his wife. ]^o artist 
can do justice to that event. He knew how proud his 
mother was to see him installed in the highest office in 
the gift of the American people, and in that hour of 
exaltation his heart turned to her. 

Months rolled by, and he was assassinated ; and 
during ah the long, weary weeks of terrible sufiering 
that followed, he wrote but one letter, and that was to 
his mother. He knew she was weeping for him, 



MOTHERS LOVE, 95 

and that her thoughts were all of lier " dear afflicted 
son." He knew well the depths of his mother's love, 
that she longed and prayed for his recovery every hour 
of the long and weary days ; and in answer to this love, 
he wrote only to her during those dreadful weeks. 

He was surrounded by men of state, attended by 
the leading physicians of the country, and anxiously in- 
quired after and sympathized with by all civilized 
nations on earth ; he was watched over and cared for 
by many good friends, and by a devoted and faithful 
wife ; yet in the midst of all this, his thoughts turned 
to his old home. 

^' Mother ! dear mother ! my heart calls for you." 

" I must write to mother;" and calhng for pen and 
ink, he wrote the only letter penned by him after the 
assassin struck him down. 

When Garlield's mother heard of his assassination, 
she exclaimed : " Oh ! why did they shoot my baby ? " 
He was her youngest child, and her thoughts went back 
through the years of toil and care, and he was again at 
her knee. " My baby," was the dearest name, and the 
depths of a mother's love, surpassed alone by the love 



^6 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



of God for the world, was awakened in her heart, and 
found expression in words that were dear to her when 
the late President of the United States was a child in 
lier arms. 




MOTHERS LOVE, 97 

EICH, THOUGH POOK. . 

A. D. F. Randolph. 

"ATO rood of land in all the earth, 

jJi 1^0 ship upon the sea, 

;^or treasures rare of gold or gems 

Do any keep for me : 
As yesterday I worked for hread, 

So must I toil to-day ! 
Yet some are not so rich as I,* 

In or I so poor as they. , 

On yonder tree the sunlight falls, 

Tlie robins on the bough ; 
Still I can hear a merrier note 

Than he is warbling now ; 
He's but an Arab of the sky, 

And never lingers long; 
Eut o'erruns the livelong year 

With music and Avith song. 

Come gather round me, merry ones, 
And here as I sit down, 



98 MO THERS LO VE. 

With shouts of laughter on me place 

A mimic regal crown. 
Say, childless king, would I accept 

Your armies and domain, 
Or e'en your crown, and never feel 

These little hands again ? 

There's more of honor in their touchy 

And blessing unto me, 
Than kingdom unto kingdom joined 

Or navies on the sea ; 
So greater gifts by them are brought 

Than Sheba's queen did bring 
To him who at Jerusalem 

Was born to be a king. 

Look at my crown, and then at yours,. 

Look in my heart and thine ; 
How do our jewels now compare — 

The earthly and divine ? 
Hold up your diamonds to the light,, 

Emerald and amethist ; 



MOTHERS LOVE. 99> 

They're to those love-lit eyes- 
Those lips so often kissed ! 

" noblest Roman of them all ; " 

That mother good and wise 
Who pointed to her little ones, 

The jewels of her eyes ; 
Four sparkle in my own to-day, 

Two deck a sinless brow ; 
How great my riches at the thought 

Of those in glory now. 

And still no rood of all the earth, 

No ship upon the sea, 
No treasure rare of gold or gems, 

Are safely kept for me ; 
Yet I am rich — myself a king, 

And here is my domain ! 
Which only God shall take away 

To give me back again. 



100 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

MOTHER'S WEE MAF. 

TWO violet eyes, intent and wise, 
This great world view with a grave surprise; 
Gaze at it, master it, rule, if you can ! 
That is the problem — mother's wee man. 

Two sensitive ears, with unknown fears, 
Turn at each sound the darhng hears ; 
'Tis a strange great world, but love is its plan, 
There is no danger — mother's wee man. 

Each tiny pink fist, fit but to be kissed, 

Waves hither and thither, wherever they list ; 

The right 'gainst the wrong, strike a blow when you can 

That is the battle — mother's wee man. 

Two delicate feet, all dimpled and sweet. 
To walk thi-s rough earth seem strangely unmeet ; 
Yet tread the path boldly, it is but a span, 
Life's little crossing — mother's wee man. 



MOTHERS L VK 101 



THE THREE LITTLE CHAIRS. 

THEY sat alone by the bright wood lire, 
The gray-haired dame and the aged sire, 
Dreaming of the days gone by ; 
The tear-drops fell on each wrinkled cheek, 
They both had thoughts they could not speak, 
And each heart uttered a sigh. 

For their sad and tearful eyes descried 
Three little chairs placed side by side 

Against the sitting-room wall ; 
Old-fashioned enough as there they stood. 
Their seat of flag and their frames of wood, 

With their backs so straight and tall. 

Then the sire shook his silvery head, 
And with trembling voice, he gently said, 

'' Mother, these empty chairs ! 
They bring us such sad thoughts to-night ; 



102 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

We'll put them forever out of sight 

In the small, dark room upstairs.'* 

But she answered, "Father, no ; not yet ; 
For I look at them and I forget 

That the children are away ; 
The boys come back, and our Mary, too, 
With her apron on of checkered blue. 

And sit there every day. 

" Johnny still whittles a ship's tall masts. 
And Willie his leaden bullets casts. 

While Mary her patchwork sews ; 
At evening the three child-like prayers 
Go up to God from these little chairs 

So softly that no one knows. 

" Johnny comes back from the billow deep ; 
Willie wakes up from the battle-field sleep 

To say ' good-night ' to me ; 
Mary's a wife and a mother no more, 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 103 

But a tired child whose play-time is o'er, 
And comes to rest at my knee. 

^' So let them stand there, though empty now, 
And every time when alone we bow 

At the Father's throne to pray, 
We'll ask to meet the children above 
In our Savior's home of rest and love. 

Where no child goeth away.' 



.- " 



A MOTHER would rather die than see her child 
ruined and disgraced ; and could mother-love save 
from the ways of sin, there would be but few travelers 
on the road that leads down to death. 



i04 MOTHER'S LOVE, 

MOTHER'S WAY. 

OFT within our little cottage, 
As the shadows gently fall, 
While the sunlight touches softly 

One sweet face upon the wall, 
Do we gather close together, 

And in hushed and tender tone. 
Ask each other's full forgiveness 

For the wrong that each has done ; 
Should you wonder at this custom 

At the ending of the day, 
Eye and voice would quickly answer, 

" It was once our mother's way." 

If our home be bright and cheery. 
If it hold a welcome true, 

Opening wide its doors of greeting 
To the many- — ^not the few ; 

If we share our Father's bounty 
With the needy, day by day. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 105 

'Tis because our hearts remember 
This was ever mother's Avay. 

Sometimes when our hearts grow weary, 

Or our task seems very long ; 
When our burdens look too heavy, 

And we deem the right all wrong, 
Then we gain a new, fresh courage, 

As we rise to proudly say : 
'' Let us do our duty bravely. 

This was our dear mother's way.'^ 

Thus we keep her memory precious, 

"While we never cease to pray, 
That at last when lengthening shadows 

Mark the evening of life's day, 
They may find us waiting calmly 

To go home our mother's way. 

— Anonymous, 



106 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

TWO GRAVES. 

BEYOI^D the gate are two small graves, 
Just seen in this twilight hour ; 
One marked by a costly marble shaft, 
The other by a single flower. 

'Neath one, in a casket satin-lined, 

Is a little baby face, 
Hound which the ringlets like pale spun-gold, 

Cluster thick 'mid the flowers and lace. 

In the other, in a coffin plainly made, 

Wrapped up in spotless white. 
Is another child ; a precious pearl 

Hid away from a mother's sight. 

And now each day, in the twilight dim, 

Together the mothers weep ; 
Ear apart in life — from mansioii to cot — 

At the grave's dark door they meet. 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 107 

All o'er this earth, be we rich or i^oor, 

The mother's love is the same ; 
When the angel of death takes our darlings away, 

'Tis ahke to us all — the pain. 



M 



OTHEES often die of grief for their children. 
Long watching by the side of the suffering one 
exhausts the energies and breaks the heart ; and when 
the child dies, she soon follows, and side by side the 
mother and child sleep in the silent grave. 



108 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



HOME mFLUE^CES. 

INHERE is music in the word home. To the old it 
brings a bewitching strain from the harp of mem- 
ory ; to the young it is a reminder of all that is near 
and dear to them. Among the many songs we are wont 
to listen to, there is not one more cherished than the 
touching melody of " Home, Sweet Home." 

Will you go back with me a few years, dear reader,, 
in the history of the past, and traverse in imagination 
the gay streets and gilded saloons of Paris, that once 
bright center of the world's follies and pleasures ? Pass- 
ing through its splendid thoroughfares is one (an En- 
glishman) who has left his home and native land to view 
the splendors and enjoy the pleasures of a foreign country. 
He has beheld with delight its paintings, its sculpture^ 
and the grand yet graceful proportions of its buildings, 
and has yielded to the spell of the sweetest music. Yet, 
in the midst of his keenest happiness, when he was re- 
joicing most over the privileges he possessed, tempta- 
tions assailed him. Sin was presented to him in one of 



MOTHERS LOVE. 100 

its most bewitching garbs. He drank wildly and deeply 
of the intoxicating cup, and his draught brought mad- 
ness. Keason wa;s overwhelmed, and he rushed out, 
all his scruples overcome, careless of what he did or 
how deeply he became immersed in the hitherto un- 
known sea of guilt. 

The cool night air lifted the damp locks from his heat- 
ed brow, and swept with soothing touch over his flushed 
cheeks. Walking on, calmer, but no less determined, 
strains of music from a distance met his ear. Following 
in the direction the sound indicated, he at length distin- 
o'uished the words and air. The sons: was well remem- 
bered. It was "Home, Sweet Home." Clear and 
sweet the voice of some English smger rose and fell on 
the air, in the soft cadences of that beloved melody. 

Motionless the wanderer listened till the last note 
floated away and he could hear nothing but the cease- 
less murmur of a great city. Then he turned slowly, 
with no feeling that his manhood was shamed by the 
tear which fell as a bright evidence of the power of 



song. 



The demon that dwells in the wine had fled ; and 



110 MOTHER'S LOVE, 

reason once more asserted her right to control. As the 
soft strains of " Sweet Home " had floated to his ear, 
memory brought np before him his own "sweet home." 
He saw his gentle mother, and heard her speak, while 
honest pride beamed from her eye, of her son, in whose 
nobleness and honor she could always trust; and his 
heart smote him as he thought how little he deserved 
such confidence. He remembered her last words of 
love and counsel, and the tearful farewell of all those 
dear ones who gladdened that far-away home with their 
presence. Well he knew their pride in his integrity, 
and the tide of remorse swept over his spirit as he felt 
what their sorrow would be, could they have seen him 
an hour before. Subdued and repentant, he retraced 
his steps, and with this vow never to taste of the terri- 
ble draught that could so excite him to madness, was 
mingled a deep sense of thankfulness for his escape 
from further degradation. The influence of home had 
]3rotected him, though the sea rolled between. 

^one can tell how often the commission of crime 
is prevented by such memories. If, then, the spell of 
home is so powerful, how important it is to make it 



MOTHERS LOVE. Ill 

pleasant and lovable! Many a time a cheerful home 
and smiling face does more to make good men and 
women than all the learning and eloquence that can 
he used. It has been said that the sweetest words in 
our language are " Mother, Home, and Heaven ;" and 
one might almost say the word home included them all ; 
for who can think of home without remembering the 
gentle mother who sanctified it by her presence ? And 
is not home the dearest name for heaven ? We think 
• of that better land as a home where brightness will 
never end in night. Oh, then, may our homes on earth 
be the centers of all our joys ; may they be as green 
spots in the desert, to which we can retire when weary 
of the cares and perplexities of hfe, and drink the clear 
waters of a love which we know to be sincere and al- 
ways unfailing. 

— Saturday Evening Pat. 



112 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



THE BALD-HEADED TYRA]S^T. 

31ary E. Vandyne. 

OH ! the quietest home on earth had I, 
N"o thought of trouble, no hint of care ; 
Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by, 
And peace had folded her pinions there. 
.But one day there joined in our household band 
A bald-headed tyrant from ^""o-man's-land. 

Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, 
And no one ventured to ask him why ; 

Like slaves we trembled before his might. 

Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry ; 

For never a soul could his power withstand. 

That bald-headed tyrant from is^o-man's-land. 

He ordered us here and he sent us there — 

Though never a word could his small lips speak— 

"With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, 
And his helpless limbs so frail and Aveak, 



MOTHERS LOVE. 113 

Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, 
^' Go up, thou bald-head from !N"o-man's-land ! " 

But his abject slaves, they turned on me ; 

Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend me there, 
The while they worshiped with bended knee 

This ruthless wretch with the missing hair ; 
For he rules them all with relentless hand. 
This bald-headed tyrant from ;N"o-man's-land. 

Then I searched for help in every clime, 
For peace had fled from my dwelling now ; 

Till I finally thought of old Father Time, 
And low before him I made my bow, 

" Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand. 

This bald-headed tyrant from ^o-man's-land ? " 

Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare. 
And a smile came o'er his features grim, 

" I'll take the tyrant under my care ; 
Watch what my hour-glass does to him ; 



114 MOTHERS LOVE. 

The veriest Immbug that ever was planned 
Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land." 

Old Time is doing his work full well — 
Much less of might does the tyrant wield ; 

But, ah ! with sorrow my heart will swell 
And sad tears fall as I see him yield. 

Could I stay the touch of that shriveled hand, 

I would keep the bald-head from No-man's-land. 

For the loss of peace I have ceased to care ; 

Like other vassals, I've learned, forsooth. 
To love the wretch who forgot his hair 

And hurried along without a tooth, 
And he rules me too with his tiny hand, 
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 115 

THE EOAD IS SO LONESOME BETWEEN". 

Mary Riley Smith. 

WHEN the crickets chirp in the evening, 
And the stars flash out in the sky, 
I sit in my lonely door- way 

And watch the children go by ; 
I look at their fresh young faces, 
And hark to each merry word, 
Eor to me, a child's own language 

Is the sweetest e'er was heard. * 

And so I sit in my door-way 

In the hour that I love the best. 
And think as I see them passing. 

My child will come with the rest ; 
Think, Avhen I hear the clicking 

Of the little garden gate, 
My darling's hand is upon it — 

O, Avhy has she come so late ? 

3ut the days have been slowly weaving 
Their warp of toil in my life ; 



116 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

The weeks have rolled on me their burden 
Of waiting and patience and strife ; 

The flowers that came with the summer 
Have finished their errand so sweet, 

And autumn is dropping her harvests 
Mellow and ripe at my feet. 

And yet my little girl comes not, 

And I think she has missed her way. 
And strayed from this cold, dark country 

To one of perpetual day. 
I think that the angels have found her, 

And, loving her better than we, 
Have begged the Good Father -to keep her^ 

Right on through eternity. 

Perhaps. But I long to enfold her. 

To tangle my hand in her hair, 
To feast my starved mouth on her kisses. 

To hear her light foot on the stair. 
I am but a poor, selfish mother. 

And mother-hearts starve, though they know 



MOTHERS LOVE, 117 

Their cliilclren are drinking the nectar 
From liUes in heaven that blow. 

Some day I am sure I shall find her, — 

But the road is so lonesome between, 
My spirit grows sick and impatient 

For a glimpse of the pastures so green. 
Till then I shall sit in the door-way, 

In the hour that my heart loves best, 
And think when the children pass homeward, 

3Iy child Avill come with the rest. 



I 



T is the mother who moulds the character and fixes 
the destiny of the child. 



118 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

THE OLD SO^G. 

OH, sing again that dear o](3 strain 
My mother sang to me, 
"When holy rays of earher clays 

Gleamed through our threshold tree ! 
The sunset low, in purple glow. 

Crept o'er the sanded sill ; 
She lingered there, in that old chair — 
Mother! I see thee still. 

The low-eaved roof, with mossy woof, 

And creepers trailing o'er ; 
The story long, the dear old song, 

Beside that oaken door ; 
The eyes that shone, the melting tone 

Of that sweet voice still come. 
With silvered hair and plantive prayer — 

Blest memories of my home ! 

Long years have fled ; the vines are dead 
And withered that old tree, 



MOTHERS LOVE, 119 

And never more, beside that door, 

"Will mother sing to me. 
But golden gleams of hallowed themes 

Will linger to the last ; 
I cherish still, with sacred thrill, 

The ashes of the past. 

Then sing again that dear old strain 

My mother sang to me. 
When holy rays of earlier days 

Gleamed through our threshold tree. 




120 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

THE SWEETEST IS^AME. 

Caleb Dunn. 

THE name of mother ! sweetest name 
That ever fell on mortal ear ! 
The love of mother ! jNlightiest love 

Which Heaven permits to flourish here. 
Dissect a mother's heart and see 

The properties it doth contain — 
What pearls of love, what gems of hope — 
A mother's heart heats not in vain. 

The words of mother ! when thej flew 

In love's true rhetoric from her lips, 
The meteor stars of sin and shame 

Are lost amid a hright eclipse ; 
And when we walk the glittering path 

Wherein temptations oft we see, 
Oh, then we realize how strong 

The power of mother's love can he. 

A mother's love ! it never wanes; 
What if her hov an ins^rate seems? 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 121 

The beauty of that wondrous love 

Around the thankless offspring beams ; 

Though in the path of shame he walks, 
Though crime hath driven him to the bowl, 

A mother's care can yet avail — 

A mother's prayers may win his soul. 

What heart like mother's can forgive 

The oft repeated wrongs of youth ? 
What hand like hers can lead us back 

From sin to innocence and truth ? 
Oh, name of mother! sweetest name 

That ever fell on mortal ear ! 
Oh, love of mother! mightiest love 

That Heaven allows to flourish here ! 



W 



HEN a mother forgives, she kisses the offense 
into everlasting forgetfulness. 



122 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



WE SHALL SLEEP, BUT KOT FOEEVER. 

WHEI^ we see a precious blossom 
That we tended with such care, 
Rudely taken from our bosom. 

How our aching hearts despair ! 
Round its little grave we linger, 

Till the setting sun is low. 
Feeling all our hopes have perished 
With the flower we cherished so. 

We shall sleep, but not forever. 
There will be a glorious dawn ; 

We shall meet to part, no, never. 
On the resurrection morn ! 



MOTHERS LOVE. 125 



SMILE, MOTHER, SMILE 1 

Josephine Hunt Woods. 

SMILE, mother, smile! 
Thinking softly all the while 
Of a tender, Hissful day, 
When the dark eyes so like these 
Of the cheruh on your knees. 

Stole your girlish heart away. 

Oh, the eyes of ''Bahy Bunn!" 

Rarest mischief they will do. 
When once old enough to steal 

What their father stole from you ! 
Smile, mother, smile ! 



124 MOTHER'S LOVE. 



HOME OF OUR CHILDHOOD. 



H 



Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

OME of our childhood ! How affection clings 



And hovers round thee with her seraph wings ! 
Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn brown, 
Than fairest summits which the cedars crown ; 
Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer breeze. 
Than all Arabia breathes along the seas ! 
The stranger's gale wafts home the exile's sigh, 
Eor the heart's temple is its own blue sky. 



A MOTHER'S heart, like primroses, opens most beau- 
tifully in the evening of life. 



MOTHERS LOVE. 125 



GOXE TO SCHOOL, 

f nUE baby has gone to school ; ah me ! 
JL ^Yhat will the mother do, 
With never a call to button or pin, 

Or tie a little shoe ? 
IIow can she keep herself busy all day, 
With the little hindering thing away ? 

Another basket to fill with lunch, 

Another good-by to say, 
And the mother stands at the door to see 

Her baby march away. 
And turns with a sigh that is half relief, 
And half a something akin to grief. 

She thinks of a possible future morn. 
When the children, one by one. 

Will go from their home out into the world^ 
To battle with life alone. 



126 MOTHER'S LOVE. 

And not even the baby be left to cheer ' 
The desolate home of that future year. 

She picks up garments here and there, 

Thrown down in careless haste ; 
And tries to think how it would seem 

If nothing were displaced : 
If the house were always as still as this, 
How could she bear the loneliness ? 

— Anonymous. 



BROTHERS and sisters may become inveterate ene- 
mies, husbands may desert their wives, and wives 
their husbands ; but a mother's love endures through 
all — in good repute, in bad repute, in the face of the 
world's condemnation, a mother still loves on. ISTo love 
like mother-love ever was known. 



-^ 





-»- 



MOTHER'S DEiTH, 





LETTER FEOM PHILLIP PHILLIPS. 

"HEN Phillip Phillips wrote giving permission to 
use ''My Mother's Prayer," found on page 143 
of this book, he said : — 

" You have my permission to use the hymn from 

^ Song Life,' as you request. 

" God bless the dear Christian mothers of our land. 

Mine is a sainted one long since gone to glory. 

" But I remember her prayers which have and are 

:3tin blessing me. 

Yours in faith and song, 

Phillip Phillips." 



]29 



130 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

MOTHER IS DEAD. 

TREAD softly ! bow the head, 
In reverend silence how ! 
1^0 passing hell doth toll, 
Yet an immortal soul 

Is passing now. 

change ! wondrous change ! 

Burst are the prison bars ; 
This moment there — so low 
In mortal prayer — and now 

Beyond the stars ! 

change ! stupendous change ! 

Here lies the senseless clod ! 
The soul from bondage breaks, 
The new immortal wakes — 

Walks with her God ! 

The long watches of the night are over, and she 
is gone ; gone from her earthly home ; gone from the 
society of those she loved ; gone to live with the dear 



MOTHERS DEATH. 131 

ones " over yonder," and with the angels. She was 
happiest Avhen surrounded by her family and friends, 
but death called and she went away wilhngly. Part 
of her family had long since gone over, and were 
" waiting and watching " for her; and when the messen- 
ger came, she was ready to go. 

The night was dark and stormy without, but 
within there was a holy quiet, only disturbed by the 
heavy breathing of a dying mother and the sobs of 
weeping friends. We had watched and waited at her 
side for many long days and nights. We hoped and 
prayed that death might stay his hand and leave her 
with us, but day after day she seemed to care less for 
things of earth and more for those of heaven. We pa- 
tiently watched and prayed as the weary days and 
nights wore on, but the trial hour came at last, and we 
assembled around her bed to see her die. As she went 
out across the dark river, we tried in broken utterances 
to sing of the beautiful land, the sweet home of the 
soul — 

" I will sing you a song of that beautiful land, 
The far away home of the soul. 



132 MOTHERS DEATH. 

Where no storms ever beat on the glittering strand 
While the years of eternity roll." 

Death halted not in his onward march, but with 
ruthless tread crushed our hearts, and laid hold on the 
mother that we loved; and with a whispered good-night 
she fell asleep — 

'' Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep, 
From which none ever wake to weep." 

Morning dawned, but mother did not look upon 
the sunshine. Friends passed in and out, but she saw 
them not. She was shrouded for the grave, but saw 
not her white apparel. We drew back the curtain to 
look upon the calm and quiet face, but she did not 
notice us. We called, but she could not answer. We 
wept bitter tears of grief, but she heeded not our sor- 
row. Then the coffin came, and friendly hands lifted 
the precious dust into the softly cushioned bed. 

" Soon shall we meet again — 

Meet ne'er to sever ; 
Soon will peace wreathe her chain 

Round us forever ; 
Our hearts will then repose 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 133 

Secure from worldly woes ; 
Our songs of praise shall close — 
Never — no, never." 

One more kiss ; once more let us press those hps 
that never deceived us ; those lips that always spoke 
our name in love. But they are cold and silent now. 
One kiss on those pale cheeks and marble brow. Fare- 
well, mother; a long farcAvell — 

" Beyond the flight of time, 

Beyond the reign of death, 
There surely is some blessed clim,% 

Where life is not a breath ; 
Nor life's affections transient fire. 
Whose sparks fly upward and expire. 

" There is a world above 

Where parting is unknown, 
A long eternity of love 

Formed for the good alone ; 
And faith beholds the dying here, 
Translated to that glorious sphere." 

And now the coffin is closed and the lid by kindly 
hands is made secure in its place. We turn from this 
scene and look upon the outer world. The fields are 



134 MOTHERS DEATH. 

bright and green as ever, perhaps, but to us a gloom 
has settled down on all things earthly. She loved these 
scenes ; loved to watch the sun come up ; to look on 
this beautiful landscape ; to watch the trees moving in 
the wind. But these things will attract her no more. 
She will never look on them again. 

Here comes her pastor. " God bless you," he says, 
^' your mother is safe now, safe at last, safe at home, safe 
in heaven. It is well. On the other shore she will be 
^ waiting and watching ' for you." How often mother 
has directed us to that land that knows no sorrow ; and 
how well we remember her prayers and tears for us in 
other years. The first prayer our infant lips learned to 
utter she taught us to repeat. 

Lift the cofiin gently, and carry it carefully. 
Mother goes out from her fondly cherished home never 
to return. From out this door others have gone to the 
grave. She followed them sadly weeping. How our 
number is growing less ; but few are left, and we, too, 
must soon follow. 

" Thus, star by star declines, 
Till all are passed away, 



MOTHERS DEATH. 135 

As morning high and higher shines, 

To pure and perfect day ; 
Nor sink those stars in empty night, 
But hide themselves in heaven's own light." 

What a lonely road, this, to the grave. Over it 

during the last few years the aged and the young have 

gone. Old age, with its gray hairs ; youth in its beauty, 

and childhood in its innocence, have gone this lonely 

way ; but it is mother that is going now. Here are her 

children and her relatives, and her many friends in this 

silent funeral march to the grave. Some day we, too, 

must go this way. Over this road must we be taken 

when we are dead. Friends will follow silently, sadly 

as we follow now, and then we will be laid in the silent 

tomb. Here are the graves. How often dear mother 

has visited this place, and hcvr many tears hsve fallen 

for those she loved ! 

" Now her last labors done, 
Now the grave is won ; 

Oh, Grave, we come ; 
Seal up this precious dust- 
Land of the good and just, 
Take the soul home." 
Farewell, mother ; a long, a last, a sad farewell ; we 



136 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

leave thee here to rest. Long and unbroken will be 
this silent slumber. Spring, with its blooming flow- 
ers; autumn, with its harvest; and winter, with its 
stormy winds, will come and go, but still w^ilt thou 
sleep on. Age after age will roll by, and this quiet 
slumber will be unbroken. Time's effacing fingers will 
wear the names from these marbles, and still wilt thou 
sleep on. One by one we too will come and lie down 
by thy side. But when the glorious resurrection morn 
shall come, as come it will, we shall together be caught 
up to meet our Lord in the air, coming in the clouds of 
heaven to gather his people home. Then our love shall 
be renewed again in that far oft' land of light. 

" No chilling winds, nor poisonous breath, 

Can reach that healthful shore ; 
Sickness and sorrow, pain and death, 

Are felt and feared no more." 

What a lonely place home is now. Everything 
about it reminds us of her. Here the room she occu- 
pied, the vines she trained, the garments she wore. 
Home can never be what it once was. Long months and 
years will we miss her who adorned it above all other 



^MOTHERS DEATH. 137 

oriianients. The garden paths, the pictures on the 
wall, the furniture, everything reminds us of mother — 

" There's a land far away mid the stars, we are told, 
Where they know not the sorrows of time." 

And to that land we will direct our steps ; to that land 
mother has found her way. There they die no more. 
There friends long parted meet again. 

"0! our sainted mother, we will not deplore you 
as lost, for we are yet one, and shall forever be; for 
that bond which united us here shall exist in all its- 
strength and vigor when the wheels of the universe 
shall stand still ; w^hen every mountain shall have 
fallen, it shall remain unimpaired; when every law 
whose authority is acknowledged by material nature 
shall have been annulled, this law of love shall be in 
force." When every river has run dry and the sea is 
without a drop ; when the sun and moon have been 
blown out and the last star has burned down; when the 
watchfires of heaven have all died away and the uni- 
verse has rolled together as a scroll, then this family 
bond shall become immortal and die no more. A few 



138 MOTHERS DEATH. 

more days and time with us will have closed, and the 
things of earth will have passed away, and we will be 
at home, 

" Only waiting 'till the angels 

Open wide the mystic gate, 
At whose feet I long have lingered, 

Weary, poor, and desolate. 
Even now I hear the footsteps, 

And their voices far away ; 
If they call me I am waiting, 

Only waiting to obey." 

Hail, ye far off lands of light ! Hail, ye moving 
millions that walk the plains of the ^N'ew Jerusalem ! 
Hail, all hail ! mother dear, we are coming home. 




MOTHERS DEATH. 139 



ONE BY ONE. 

THEY are gathering home from every land, 
One by one, 
As their weary feet touch the shining strand, 

One by one ; 
Their brows are encased in a golden crown 
And their travel-soiled garments are all laid down, 
And clothed in white raiment they rest on the mead 
Where the Lamb loveth his chosen to lead. 

One by one. 

Before they rest they pass through the strife. 

One by one ; 
Through the river of death they enter life, 

One by one. 
To some the waves of the river are still 
As they ford on their way to the heavenly hill ; 
To some the waters run darkly and wild. 
But all reach the home of the undeiiled, 

One by one. 



140 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

We, too, shall come to the river-side, 

One by one ; 
We are nearer its waters eacli even-tide, 

One by one. 
We can hear the roar and the dash of the stream 
Ever and again through our hfe's deep dream ; 
Sometimes the waves all the banks o'erfiow, 
Sometimes in light ripples the small waves go, 

One by one. 




MOTREES DEATH. 141 

MOTHERLESS. 

Buff Porter 

WHAT is home without a mother ? 
Ah ! surely best they know, 
lYhere the clays' long weary shadows 

Die with no sunset glow ; 
Where the pained ear aches with waiting, 

But hears no answer sweet ; 
Where the eyes grow dim with watching, 

The dear lost face to greet ; 
Where the children meet at twilight, 

Only the darkness dread, 
^o soft hand with fond caressing 

To soothe the troubled head ; 
Where no kiss with love's sweet healing, 

In silence of night. 
Like a benediction holy, 

Gives 'peace Hill morning light. 
Ah ! the dark wide gulf's deejD yawning, 

The aching void unfilled ; 
Ah ! the silence drear, unbroken, 



142 MOTHERS DEATH. 

By her voice never thrilled. 
Ah ! the midnight pall unlifted, 

The presence grim and cold, 
That have filled with gloom the places 

That she made bright of old. 
It is day without its sunshine, 

A June with roses dead ; 
It is summer without harvest, 

But blighted fields instead ; 
It is blackest wing of sorrow, 

Low brooding day by day, 
O'er the heart's most sacred yearning, 

While slow years pass aw^ay. 




MOTHERS DEATH. 143 

MY MOTHER'S PRAYER. 

AS I wandered 'round the homestead, 
Many a dear familiar spot, 
Brought within my recollection. 

Scenes I'd seemingly forgot. 
There, the orchard — meadow yonder — 

Here the deep, old-fashioned Avell, 
With its old-moss-covered bucket, 
Sent a thrill no tongue can tell. 

Though the house was held by strangers, 

All remained the same within. 
Just as when a child I rambled 

Up and down, and out and in ; 
To the garret dark ascending 

( Once a source of childish dread), 
Peering through the misty cobAvebs, 

Lo ! I saw my trundle-bed. 

Quick I drew it from the rubbish, 
Covered o'er with dust so long, 



144 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

When, behold, I heard in fancy, 
Strains of one familiar song, 

Often sung by my dear mother 
To me in that trundle-bed : 

" Hush, my dear, he still and slumber. 
Holy angels guard thy bed." 

While I listen to the music 

Stealing on in gentle strain, 
I am carried back to childhood — 

I am now a child again ; 
'Tis the hour of my retiring. 

At the dusky even-tide ; 
ITear my trundle-bed I'm kneeling, 

As in yore, by mother's side. 

Hands are on my head so loving. 
As they were in childhood's days ; 

I, with weary tones, am trying 
To repeat the words she says ; 

'Tis a prayer in language simple 
As a mother's lips can frame : 



MOTHER'S DEATH. • 145 

'^' Father, thou who art in heaven, 
Hallowed, ever, be thy name." 

Prayer is over — to my pillow 

With a good-night kiss I creep, 
[Scarcely waking while I whisper, 

" ^N'ow I lay me down to sleep." 
Then my mother o'er me bending. 

Prays in earnest words, but mild : 
•^'Hear my prayer, heavenly Father, 

Bless, oh, bless my precious child." 

Yet I am but only dreaming, 

K'e'er I'll be a child again. 
Many years has that dear mother, 

In the quiet grave-yard lain ; 
Put her blessed, angel spirit 

Daily hovers o'er my head, 
falling me from earth to heaven, 

Even from my trundle-bed. 



146 MOTHERS DEATH. 

A FATHER TO HIS MOTIIEELESS CHILDEEK 

Mr?. Lydia A. Sigoumey. 

YOU'RE weary, my precious ones ; your eyes 
Are wandering far and wide; 
Think ye of her who knew so well 
Your tender thoughts to guide ! 
Who could to wisdom's sacred lore 

Your fixed attention claim, 
Ah ! never from your hearts erase 
That hlessed mother's name. 

'Tis time to sing your evening hymn, 

My youngest infant dove; 
Come press your velvet cheek to mine 

And learn the lay of love ; 
My sheltering arms can clasp you all. 

My poor deserted throng ; 
Cling as you used to cling to her, 

Who sings the angel's song. 

Begin, sweet hird, the accustomed strain, 
Come warble loud and clear, 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 147' 

Alas ! alas ! you're weeping all, 

You're sobbing in my ear. 
Good-night, go say the prayer she taught 

Beside your little bed ; 
The lips that used to bless you there 

Are silent with the dead. 

A father's hand your course may guide 

Amid the thorns of life. 
His care^protect those shrinking plants. 

That dread the storms of strife ; 
But who upon your infant hearts 

Shall like that mother write ? 
Who touch the springs that rule the soul ? 

Dear smitten flock, good-night. 




148 MOTHERS DEATH. 

MY MOTHEE'S BIBLE. 

Bishop Gilbert Haven, 

O'N one of the shelves of my hbrary, surrounded by 
volumes of all kinds, on various subjects and in 
various languages, stands an old book, in its plain cov- 
ering of brown paper, unprepossessing to the eye, and 
apparently out of place among the more pretentious 
volumes that stand by its side. To the eye of the 
stranger it certainly has neither beauty nor comeliness. 
Its covers are worn ; its leaves marred by long use ; its 
pages, once white, have become yellow with age ; yet 
old and worn as it is, to me it is the most beautiful and 
most valuable book on my shelves. 'No other awakens 
such associations, or so appeals to all that is best and 
noblest within me. It is, or rather it was, my mother's 
Bible — companion of her best and holiest hours, source 
of her unspeakable joy and consolation. It was the 
light to her feet and lamp to her path. It was constantly 
by her side ; and, as her steps tottered in the advance 
pilgrimage of life, and her eyes grew dim with age, more 
and more precious to her became the well worn pages. 
One morning, just as the stars were fading into the 



MOTHERS DEATH. 149 

dawn of the coming Sabbath, the aged pilgrim passed 
on beyond the stars, and beyond the morning, and en- 
tered into the rest of the eternal Sabbath — to look upon 
the face of him of whom the law and the prophets 
had spoken, and whom, not having seen, she had loved. 
And now, no legacy is, to me, more precious than that 
old Bible. Years have passed ; but it stands there on its 
shelf, eloquent as ever, witness of a beautiful life that 
is finished. When sometimes, from the cares and con- 
flicts of external life, I come back to the study, weary 
of the world and tired of men, that are so hard and 
selfish, and a world that is so unfeeling — and the strings 
of the soul have become untuned and discordant, I seem 
to bear that book saying, as with the well remembered 
tones of a voice long silent, " Let not your heart be 
troubled, for what is your life ? It is even as a vapor." 
Then my troubled spirit becomes calm ; and the little 
world that had grown so great, and so formidable, sinks 
into its true place again. I am peaceful. I am strong. 
There is no need to take down the volume from 
the shelf, or to open it. A glance of the eye is 
sufiicient. Memory and the law of association sup- 



150 MOTHERS DEATH. 

ply the rest. Yet there are occasions when it is 
otherwise; hours in hfe when some deep grief has 
troubled the heart, some darker, heavier cloud is over 
the spirit and over the dwelHng, and when it is a 
comfort to take down that old Bible, and search its 
pages. Then, for a time, the latest editions, the origi- 
nal languages, the notes and commentaries, and all the 
critical apparatus which the scholar gathers around him 
for the study of the Scripture are laid aside ; and the 
plain old English Bible that was my mother's is taken 
from the shelf. 




MOTHERS DEATH. 151 



O^ THE RECEIPT OF MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

William Cowper. 

OTHAT those lips had language ! Life has pass'd 
With nie but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smiles I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solac'd me ; 
Yoice only fails, else how distinct they say^ 
" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ;" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic chain 
To quench it), here shines on me still the same. 

Faithful remembrance of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ! 
And, while that face renews my failing grief^ 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 



152 MOTHERS DEA TH. 

Shall steep me in Elysiaii reverie, 

A momeutary dream, that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ! 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 
Wretch'd even then, life's journey just hegun ? 
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in hliss ; 
Ah, that maternal smile, it answers, " Yes." 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy funeral day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; 
And turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ; 
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are sounds unknown ! 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 

The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 

» 

Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of a quick return. 
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 15S 

And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd; 

By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd, 

Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child, 

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. 

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 

r learn'd at last submission to my lot, 

But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more. 

Children not thine, have trod my nurs'ry floor ; 

And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, 

Drew me to school along the public way, 

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 

'Tis now become a history little known. 

That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. 

Short liv'd possession ! but the record fair 

That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, 

Still outlives many a storm, that has etfac'd 

A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; 



154 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

Thy morning bounties, ere I left my home, 

The biscuit or confectionery plum ; 

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow' d 

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ; 

All this, and more endearing still than all, 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 

Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, 

That humor interpos'd too often makes ; 

All this still legible in mem'ry's page, 

And still to be so to my latest age. 

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pa}' 

Such honors to thee as my .numbers may ; 

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 

jSTot scorn' d in heav'n, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, 

When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs. 

The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 

I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 

Wouldst softly speak and stroke m.y head, and smile), 

Could those few pleasant days again appear, 



MOTHERS DEAIIL 155 

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 

I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 

Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might, — • 

But no — what here we call our life is such, 

So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, 

That I should ill requite thee to constrain 

Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean cross' d), 
Shoots into port at some well-haven' d isle, 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore, 
"• Where tempests never beat nor billows roar." 
And thy lov'd consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy side ; 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always distress'd — 



156 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest toss'd, 
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course ; 
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth, 
But higher far my proud pretentions rise — 
The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
And now, farewell ! — Time unrevok'd has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
By contemplation's help, nor sought in vain, 
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again ; 
To have renew' d the joys that once were mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And while the wings of Fancy still are free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself remov'd, thy pow'er to soothe me left. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. "^'^^ 



BAPTISM OF AN IKFAKT AT ITS MOTHER'S 

FUNERAL. 

M/'x. LydiaA.&igourney. 

WHENCE is that trembling of a father's hand, 
Who to the man of God doth bring this babe, 
Asking the seal of Christ ? Why doth the voice 
That uttereth o'er its brow the triune name, 
Falter with sympathy ? And most of all, 
Why is yonder coffin hd a pedestal 
For the baptismal font. 

And" again I ask — 
But all the answer was those gushing tears 
Which stricken hearts did weep. 

For there she lay — 
The fair young mother in that coffin bed. 
Mourned by the funeral train. The heart that beat. 
With trembling tenderness to every touch 
Of love, or pity, flushed the cheek no more. 



158 MOTHEES DEATH. 

THE OLD AEM-CHAIE. 

- Eliza Cook. 

I LOVE it ! I love it ! and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ? 
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; 
I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs; 
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
Would you learn the spell ? A mother sat there ; 
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 

The hallowed seat Avith listening ear, 

To gentle words that mother would give, 

To fit me to die and teach me to live : 

She told me shame would never betide 

With truth for my creed, and God for my guide; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer. 

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat and watched her many a day. 

When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray ; 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 159 

And I almost worshiped her Avhen she smiled, 
And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 
Years rolled on, but the last one sped ; 
My idol was shattered, my earth star fled ; 
I learn'd how much the heart can bear, 
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 

*Tis past ! 'tis pajst ! but I gaze on it now 

With quivering lip and throbbing brow ; 

'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, 

And memory flows with lava tide. 

Say it is folly and deem me weak, 

While the scalding drops steal down my cheek ; 

But I love it ! I love it ! and cannot tear 

My soul from my mother's old arm-chair. 




160 MOTHERS DEATH. 



THE DYING MOTHER. 

LAY the gem upon my bosom, 
Let me feel the sweet warm breath, 
Eor a strange chill o'er me passes, 
And I know that it is death. 

I would gaze upon the treasure. 

Scarcely given, ere I go ; 
Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers 
Wander o'er my cheek of snow. . 

I am passing through the waters. 

But a blessed shore appears ; 
Xneel beside me, husband dearest, 
Let me kiss away thy tears. 

Wrestle with thy grief, my husband. 

Strive from midnight until day. 
It may leave an angel's blessing 
When it vanisheth away. 



MOTHERS DEATH. 161 

Lay the gem upon my bosom, 

'Tis not long she can be there ; 
See ! how to my heart she nestles, 
'Tis the pearl I love to wear. 
If in after years, beside thee 

Sits another in my chair, 
Though her voice be sweeter music. 
And her face than mine more fair ; 

If a cherub calls thee " father," 
Far more beautiful than this. 
Love thy first-born, O my husband ! 
Turn not from the motherless. 

Tell her sometimes of her mother — 

You can call her by my name ; 
Shield her from the winds of sorrow, 
If she errs, gently blame ! 

Lead her sometimes where I'm sleeping, 

I will answer if she calls. 
And my breath shall stir her ringlets. 



162 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

When my voice in blessing falls ; 
Her soft black eye will brighten, 

And wonder whence it came ; 
In her heart when years pass o'er her,, 

She will find her mother's name. 



0^ A LOCK OF MY MOTHEE'S HAIE. 

COLD the brow that wore this braid, 
Pale the cheek this bright lock pressed, 
Dim the eye it loved to shade, 
Still the ever gentle breast — 
All that bosom's struggles past, 
When it held this ringlet last. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 16a 

TO MOTHER. 

Emanuel Vitilas Scherb, from Switzerland. 

FULL twenty years have passed away, 
(They seem now but a single day) 
Since last I saw thee, mother. 

But I was then a wayward child 
And very young, and very wild, 

Alas ! thou knowest it, mother ; 
And high my passions wine did foam, 
I could no longer stay at home, 
I wanted through the world to roam, 

Away from thee, dear mother. 

I knew not then what now I know — 
That through the world, where'er you go, 

You find no second mother ; 
I thought then in my foolish mind, 
With wild romantic notions blind. 
That everywhere I was to find 
Human hearts as warm and kind 



164 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

As the one I left behind — 

As thine, thou kindest mother. 

And so I rushed into the world, 
By stormy, fiery passions hurled 

Away from thee, dear mother. 
And on the whirlwind did I ride, 
"Without a goal, without a guide. 
Wandering far and wandering wide. 
And always farther from thy side — 

Thy side, my blessed mother. 

I roamed and roamed the world around. 
But what I sought I never found, 

I never found it, mother. 
I sought for nothing more nor less 
Than an ideal happiness, 
Sc aght Paradise in the wilderness, 

And could not find it, mother. 

I sought a heart, I sought a soul, 
1 sough a love intense and whole. 



MOTHERS DEATH, 165 

A deathless love, mother ! 
I sought for glory's stainless shrine, 
I sought for wisdom's drossless mine, 
Sought men and women all divine. 

And never found them, mother. 

And worried by the endless race, 
And sickened by the fruitless chase. 

Old, cold, and faint, mother ! 
With breaking heart and darkened eye, 
I bade my soaring hopes good-by, 
And weary both of earth and sky, 
I laid me down, and yearned to die, 

To die and rest, mother ! 

But he whose name be ever blest. 
Who loves us more and knows us best, 

Took pity on me, mother ; 
And from his own efiiilgence bright. 
He sent imparting strength and sight, 
A quickening ray of heavenly light 

And peace — his peace, mother 1 



166 MOTHERS DEATH. 

And now life's stormy days are past, 
My heart at last, at last 

Has found its haven, mother. 
By wild desires no more distrest, 
No passion now can heat my breast, 
Save one which has outlived the rest, 
The earliest, deepest, and the best, 

My love to thee, dear mother. 

But thou hast left this vail of tears, 
And winged thy way to better spheres. 

Far from thy child, mother ! 
The boundless gratitude I owe. 
The heart's warm love I fain would show, 
The tender care I should bestow. 
My thousand debts of long ago — 
I cannot pay them here below, 

I cannot pay them, mother. 

But thou so gentle, and so mild, 
Thou wilt not spurn thy erring child, 
Thou wilt forgive me, mother. 



MOTHERS DEATH. 167 

Eeholcl the days are running fast, 
I'm with the old ah^eady classed, 
Soon will the darksome vail be passed ; 
Then comes the hour, when at last, 
My spirit arms around thee cast, 
I shall repay thee, mother. 



MY MOTHER. 

ALAS, how little do we appreciate a mother's tender- 
ness while living ! How heedless are we in youth 
of all her anxieties and kindness ! But when she ia 
dead and gone ; when the cares and coldness of the 
world come withering to our hearts; when we ex- 
perience how hard it is to find true sympathy, how few 
love us for ourselves, how few will befriend us in our 
misfortunes, then we think of the mother that loved us, 
and to her our hearts turn yearningly. 



168 MOTHERS DEATH. 

MY TRU]^DLE-BED. 

R. M. Streeter. 

AS I rummaged through the attic, 
Listening to the falling rain 
As it pattered on the shingles 

And against the window pane, — 
Peering over chests and boxes, 

Which with dust were thickly spread, 
Saw I in the farthest corner 

What was once my trundle-bed. 

So I drew it from the recess 

Where it had remained so long. 
Hearing all the while the music 

Of my mother's voice in song, 
As she sung in sweetest accents 

What I since have often read : 
" Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber. 

Holy angels guard thy bed." 

As I listened, recollections 

That I thought had been forgot, 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 169 

Came with all the gush of memory, 

Eushing, thronging, to the spot ; 
And I wandered back to childhood, 

To those merry days of yore, 
When I knelt beside my mother. 

By this bed upon the floor. 

Then it was with hands so gently 

Placed upon my infant head. 
That she taught my lips to utter 

Carefully the words she said. 
I^ever can they be forgotten, — 

Deep are they in memory driven : 
" Hallowed be thy name, 0, Father ; 

Father ! thou who art in Heaven." 

This she taught me ; then she told me 

Of its import, great and deep ; 
After which I learned to utter, 

" I^ow I lay me down to sleep." 
Then it was with hands uplifted 

And in accents soft and mild. 



170 MOTHER'S DEATH, 

That my mother — " Our Father, 
Bless, 0, bless my precious child ! " 

Years have passed, and that dear mother 

Long has slumbered, 'neath the sod, 
And I trust her sainted spirit 

Revels in the home of God. 
But that scene at summer twilight 

^N'ever has from memory fled. 
And it comes in all its freshness 

When I see my trundle-bed. 




MOTHERS DEATH. 171 



OE" THE DEATH OF A MOTHER. 

AT length, then, the tenderest of mothers is gone ; 
Her smiles, her love, accents, can glad thee no 
more ; 
That once cheerful chamber is silent and lone, 
And for thee all a child's precious duties are o'er. 

Her welcome at morning, her blessing at night, 
ITo longer the crown of thy comforts can be ; 
And the friend seen and loved since thine eyes first saw 

light, 
Thou canst ne'er see again ; thou art orphaned like me. 



M 



ORE severing of tender cords, and more wounds 
that never heal, result from the mother's death 
than from any other event that can take place in any 
home. 



172 MOTHERS DEATH. 

MOTIIEK'S VACAi^T CHAIR. 

T. DeWitt Talmage, 

I GO a little farther on in your house, and I find the 
mother's chair. She had so many cares and 
troubles to soothe that it must have rockers. I remem- 
ber it well. It was an old chair and the rockers were 
almost worn out, for I was the youngest, and the chair 
had rocked the whole family. It made a creaking noise 
as it moved, but there was music in its sound. It was 
just high enough to allow us children to put our heads 
into her lap. That was the bank where we deposited 
all our hurts and worries. Oh, what a chair that was. 
It was different from the father's chair — it was entirely 
different. You ask me how ? I cannot tell, but we all 
felt it was diflerent. Perhaps there was about this chair 
more gentleness, more tenderness, more grief when we 
had done wrong. When we were wayward father 
scolded, but mother cried. It was a very wakeful chair. 
In the sick day of children other chairs could not keep 
awake, that chair always kept awake — kept easily awake. 
That chair knew all the old lullabies, and all those word- 



MOTHER'S DEATH. I'^S 

less songs which mothers sing to their children. Songs 
in which all pity and compassion and sympathetic influ- 
ences are combined. That old chair has stopped rock- 
ing for a good many years. It may be set up in the loft 
or garret, but it holds a queenly power yet. 

When at night you went into that grog-shop to get 
the intoxicating draught, did you not hear a voice that 
said : '' My son, why go in there?" and louder than the 
boisterous encore of the theatre, a voice saying : " My 
son, what do you here ?" And when you went into the 
house of sin, a voice saying: "What would your 
mother do if she knew you were here?" and you were 
provoked at yourself, and you charged yourself with 
superstition and fanaticism, and your head got hot with 
your own thoughts, and you went home, and you went 
to bed, and no sooner had you touched the bed than a 
voice said : " What, a prayerless pillow ?" Man ! what 
is the matter ? This ! You are too near your mother's 
rocking-chair. " Oh, pshaw," you say, " there is noth- 
ino^ in that. I'm five hundred miles off from where I 
was born. I'm three thousand miles off from the 
Scotch kirk whose bell was the first music I ever 



174 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

heard." I cannot help that. Yon are too near your 
mother's rockmg-chah\ "Oh," you say, "there can't 
be anything in that ; that chair has been vacant a 
great while." I cannot help that. It is all the 
mightier for that ; it is omnipotent, that mother's vacant 
chair. It whispers. It speaks. It carols. It mourns. 
It prays. It warns. It thunders. A young man went 
off and broke a mother's heart, and while he was away 
from home his mother died, and a telegram brought 
the son; and he came into the room where she lay, 
and looked upon her face and cried out : " O, mother, 
mother, mother, what your life could not do your death 
has effected! This moment I give my heart to God !" 
And he kept his promise. Another victory for the va- 
cant chair. 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 175 



T HE MOTHEE PEEISHmG IN A SKOW-STOEM. 

Seba Smith. 

THE cold winds swept tlie mountain's height, 
And pathless was the dreary wild, 
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night, 
A mother wandered with her child ; 
As through the drifting snow she passed. 
Her bahe was sleeping on her breast. 

V 

And colder still the winds did blow, 
And darker hours of night came on. 

And deeper grew the drifting snow ; 

Her hmbs were chilled, her strength was gone; 

" Oh, God !" she cried in accents wild, 

" If I must perish, save my child." 

She stripped her mantle from her breast. 
And bared her bosom to the storm. 

And round the child she wrapped the vest. 
And smiled to think the babe was warm; 



176 



MOTHERS DEATH. 



"With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, 
And sunk upon her snowy bed. 

At dawn a traveler went by 

And saw her 'neath a snowy vail, 

The frost of death was in her eye, 

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale; 

He moved the robe from off the child. 

The babe looked up and sweetly smiled. 




MOTHER'S DEATH. 177 



DEAD MOTHEE. 

But when I go 
To mj lone bed, I find no mother there; 
And weeping kneel to say the prayer she taught ; 
Or when I read the Bible that she loved, 
Or to her vacant seat in church draw near, 
And think of her, a voice is in my heart. 
Bidding me early seek my God, and love 
My blessed Savior, and that voice is hers ; 
I know it is because these were the words 
She used to speak so tenderly, with tears. 
At the twilight hour, or when we walked 
In the spring among rejoicing birds, 
Or peaceful talked beside the winter hearth. 



178 ■ MOTHER'S DEATH. 



THE DEATH-BED. 

Thomas Hood. 

WE watched her breathing through the night, 
Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of hfe 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about. 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her being out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears. 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping Avhen she died. 

For when the morn came dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers. 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 



MOTHERS DEATH. 179 



DEATH SCE^'E. 

DYI^G, still sloAvly dying, 
As the hours of night rode by ; 
She had lain since the light of sunset 

Was red on the evening sky, 
'Till after the middle Avatches, 

As we softly n^ear her trod, — 
When her soul from its j)rison fetters 
Was loosed by the hand of God. 

One moment her pale lips trembled 

AYith the triumph she might not tell, 
As the sight of the life immortal 

On her spirit's vision fell ; 
Then the look of rapture faded, 

And the beautiful smile was faint, 
As that in some convent picture 

On the face of a dying saint. 

And we felt in the lonesome midnio^ht. 
As we sat by the silent dead, 



Phebe Carey. 



180 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

What a light on the path going downward 
The feet of the righteous shed ; 

When we thought how with faith unshrinking 
She came to the Jordan's tide, 

And taking the hand of the Savior, 
Went up on the other side. 



LIPS I IIAYE KISSED. 

LIPS I have kiss'd, ye are faded and cokl ; 
Hands I have press'd, ye are covered with moukl 
Form I have press'd, thou art crumhhng away, 
And soon on thy bosom my breast I will lay. 
Friends of my youth, I have witnessed your bloom ; 
Shades of the dead, I have wept at your tomb ; 
Tomb, I have wreaths, I have flowers for thee. 
But who will e'er gather a garland for me ? 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 181 



LmES BY WHITTIER. 

AE'D yet, dear heart, remembering thee, 
Am I not richer than of old ? 
Safe in thy immortality, 

What chano^e can reach the wealth I hold, 
Thy love hath left in trust with me ? 

And while in life's late afternoon, 
When cool and long the shadows grow, 

I walk to meet the night that soon 
Shall shape and shadow overflow, 

I cannot feel that thou art far. 
When near at need the angels are ; 

And when the sunset gates unbar, 
Shall I not see thee Avaiting stand, 

And white as^ainst the evenino- star. 
The welcome of thy beckoning hand ? 



182 MOTHERS DEATH. 



A MOTHER'S DEATH. 

DEATH comes an unsought guest to every boards 
and at liis spectral bidding some loved one goes 
forth to his mysterious home. 

Time and philosophy may teach resignation unto 
hearts made desolate by his coming ; but they can never 
fill the vacancy therein when she that was our mother 
no longer casts a halo about our darkened hearth. 
A mother's place — so loved — so worshiped — once 
empty, must be forever so. A breast once panged by a 
mother's death no medicine can reach with healing. Xo 
man however scarred, no heart however hardened, can 
forget the gentle being who gave him life. A mother 
is truly our guardian spirit upon earth ; her goodness 
shields and protects ; she walks with our infancy, our 
youth and maturing age, ever sheltering us with her 
absorbing love, and expiating our many sins with her 
blessed prayers. And when our mother, with all her 
burden of love, her angelic influence, her saintly care, 
ceases her beauteous life, how much we lose of home 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 183 

of happiness, of heaven, no one can reckon ; for our 
mother was none but ours, and we only can know how 
holy she was, how sacred her memory must ever l^e. 

But may we now borrow consolation from the 
thought that our loss is heaven's gain ; that surely her 
angel spirit watches over us, erasing with grateful tears 
the records of our sins, and making easy our path to 
her, with blessed and blessing pjayers. 



MOTHER'S LOYE CA:N']SrOT DIE. 

MOTHER'S love is the purest and the best of any 
love born on earth, and it is as unseliish and un- 
dying as eternity's years. Other loves may die, mother- 
love never will, never can. 



184 MOTHER'S DEATH. 



THE DYIXG MOTHER. 

FRESH ill our memory, as fresh 
As yesterday, is yet the day she died. 
We gathered romid her bed, and bent our knees 
In fervent supphcation to the Throne 
Of mercy, and performed our prayers with sighs 
Sincere, and penitential tears, and looks 
Of self-abasement ; but we sought to stay 
An angel on the earth, a spirit ripe for heaven. 

Tlie room I well remember, and the bed 
On which she lay ; and all the faces, too, 
That crowded dark and mournfully around. 

But, better still, 
I do remember, and will ne'er forget, 
The dying eye ; that eye alone was bright, 
And brighter grew as nearer death approached. 
" God help my children !" we heard her say, and heard 
'No more. The angel of the covenant 
Was come ; and, faithful to his promise, stood 
Prepared to walk with her thro' death's dark vale. 



MOTHERS DEATH. 185 

A.nd now her eves grew briglit, and brighter still, 
Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused 
With many tears, and closed without a cloud ; 
They set as sets the morning star, which goes 
E'ot down behind the darkened west, nor hides 
Obscured among the temples of the sky, 
But melts away into the light of heaven. 

—Polloh 



"'TWILL ALL BE RIGHT IX THE MORXIXG." 

IT will all be right in the morning, 
I murmured then throuo^h the nisrht. 
As I watched her heavily breathing, 
And longed for the coming liglit. 
It came with its golden sunshine, 

And I turned to my mother's bed, 
To kiss her lips as a welcome. 
But I found mv mother dead. 



186 MO TREE'S DEA TH. 



TO MY DEAD MOTIIEE. 



Otivay Curry. 

SLEEP on, the cold and heavy hand 
Of death lias stilled thy gentle breast ; 
^o rude sound of this stormy land 

Shall mar thy peaceful rest ; 
Undying grandeur round thee ck)se 
To count the years of thy repose. 

A day of the far years will l;)reak 

On every sea, and every shore 
In Avhose bright morning thou shalt wake, 

And rise to sleep no more — 
;No more to moulder in the gloom 
And coldness of the weary tomb. 

I saw thy fleeting life decay, 

Even as a frail and withering flower, 

And vainly strove to while away 
Its swiftly closing hour ; 

It came with many a thronging thought 

Of anguish ne'er again forgot. 



310 THEWS DEA TFT. 1 87 

In life's fond dreams I have no j_)aTfc — 

Xo share in its resounding glee ; 
The musings of my weary heart 

Are in the grave Avith thee ; 
There have been bitter tears of mine 
Above that lo"\^']y bed of thine. 

It seems to my fond memory now 

As it had been but yesterday ; 
When I was but a child, and thou 

Didst cheer me in my play ; 
And in the evening still and lone 
Didst lull me with thy music's tone. 

And when the twilight hours began, 
And shining constellations came, 

Thou bid'st me know each nightly sun 
And con its ancient name ; 

For thou hadst learned their love and light 

With watching in the tranquil night. 

And then, when leaning on thy knee, 
I saw them in their grandeur rise, 



188 MOTHERS DEATH. 

It was a joy in sootli to me ; 

But now the starry skies 
Seem holier grown, and doubly fair, 
Since thou art with the angels there. 

The stream of hfe with hurrvino: flow, 
Its course may bear me swiftly thro' ; 

I grieve not, for I soon shall go. 
And by thy side rencAv 

The love which here for thee I bore, 

And never leave thy presence more. 



MOTIIER-LOYE UXDYIXG, 

WIIEiT rolling years shall cease to move, when the 
days of all men have been numbered, and when 
the earth shall have wandered away through space and 
been lost, mother-love will still live on as undying as 
the throne of God. 



MOTHERS DEATR. 189 



01^ DEEAM^G OF MY MOTHER. 

Q( T AY, gentle shadow of my mother, stay ; 

hJ Thy form but seldom comes to bless my sleep. 

Ye faithless slumbers, Hee not thus aAvay 

And leave my wistless eyes to wake and weep. 
Oh ! I was dreaming of those golden days, 

When, "Will" my guide, and " Pleasure" all my aim, 
I rambled wild through childhood's flowery maze, 

And knew of sorrow scarcely by her name. 
Those scenes are fled, — and thou, alas, are fled. 

Light of my heart and guardian of my youth. 
Then come no more to slumbering fancy's bed. 

To aggravate the pangs of waking truth ; 
Or if kind sleep these visions wiU restore, 

let me sleep again and never waken more ! 

— LilteVs Living Age. 



190 MOTHERS DEATH. 



EECOLLECTIOXS. 

XT was thirty years since my iiiotlier's death, when, 
after a long absence from my native village, I stood 
beside the sacred monnd beneath which I saw her 
bmied. Since that mournful period a great change 
had come over me. My childish years had passed 
awa}^, and with them my youthful character. The 
world was altered, too ; and as I stood at my motlier's 
grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same 
thoughtless creature wdiose cheeks she had so often 
kissed in an excess of tenderness. 

But the varied events of thirty years had not 
effaced the reniend)rance of tliat mother's snnles. It 

seemed as if I had seen her but yesterday, as if the 
blessed sound of her well-remembered voice was yet in 
my ear. The gay dreams of my infancy and childhood 
were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that, had 
it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 191 

A\'Ould liaA^e been gentle and refreshing. The circum- 
stance may seem a trifling one, hut the thought of it 
now pains my heart. 

My mother had been ill a long time, and I became 
so accustomed to her pale face and weak voice that I 
was not frightened by them, as children usually are. 
At first, it is true, I sobbed violently; but when day 
after day I returned from school and found her the 
same, I began to believe that she would always be 
spared to me ; but they told me she would die. 

One day when I had lost my place in the class, and 
had done my work wrong, I came home discouraged and 
fretful, I went to my mother's chamber. She was 
paler than usual, but met me with the same gentle 
smile that always welcomed my return. Alas ! when I 
look back through the lapse of thirty years, I think my 
heart must have been stone not to have been melted by 
it. She requested me to go down stairs and bring her 
a drink of water. I pettishly asked why she did not 
call a domestic to do it. With a look of mild reproach, 
which I shall never forsfet if I live to be a hundred 



192 MOTHERS DEATH. 

years old, she said : " Will not my child bring a drink 
of water to her poor sick mother ?" 

I went and brought the water, but I did not do it 
kindly. Instead of smiling and kissing her, as I was 
wont to do, I set the water down quickly and left the 
room. After playing about for a short time I went to 
bed without bidding my mother good-night. But when 
alone in my room in darkness, and in silence, I remem- 
bered hoAV pale she looked when she said : '' Will not 
my child bring her mother a drink of water ?" I could 
not sleep. I stole into her room to ask forgiveness. 
She had sunk into an easy slumber, and they told me I 
must not waken her. I did not tell any one what 
troubled me, but stole back to my room, resolved to rise 
early in the morning and tell her how sorry I was for 

my conduct. 

The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and 

hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's 

chamber. She Avas dead I When I touched the hand 

that used to rest upon my head in blessings, it was so 

cold that it made me start. I bowed down by her side 

and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I thou2:ht 



MOTHERS DEATH. 



193 



then I wished to die and he huried with her; and old as 
I now am, that event is one of the bitterest recollec- 
tions of my life ; and while I live, I shall never cease 
to regret I.. Allien I think of mother ; when I think 
of her death, of her grave, or of her home in heaven, 
this careless, thoughtless, and cruel conduct of mine is 
always present. ;N"o act of my life has given me so 
much pain. 

— Anonymous. 




194 MOTHERS DEATH. 



THE DEATH OF EYE. 

George Waterman, Jr 

^mWAS evening tide. The fiery charioteer 

J_ Who guides the courses of the king of day, 
Had urged his ascent up the azure space 
Which hnks the orient with the distant west, 
Until his burning w^heels a moment paused 
Upon its utmost height. A moment more, 
And the descending archway mirrored forth 
The brilhant glories of the irradiant king ! 
And now, before he reached the utmost bound 
Which severs day from night, he paused again 
And cast a hngering look on scenes behind. 
Beneath a bower, near Eden's eastern gate, 
Around whose leafy side in festoon hung 
The richest, sweetest flowers of orient birth, 
Kechned the dying mother of mankind. 
The constant partner of her every joy, 
And (since that fatal day, when perfect bliss 
Fled their polluted bower and sped his way 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 195 

To holier scenes beneath the throne of God) 

The constant partner of her every woe, 

Beside her knelt. Her children, too, were there ; 

'Not all, for one was not. Long since his voice 

Had ceased to mingle with their pious song, 

As with the fading light of evening sky 

They offered up their joyous notes of praise 

To him who rules the skies. One other still 

Was absent from that lonely group, which thus 

In silence gathered round the mossy couch, 

To view a sight on earth unseen before — 

A mother's dying hour. That other one 

IsTow roamed a stranger to that holy peace 

"Which springs from pardoned sin, with Heaven's broad 

seal 
Of reprobation on him. 

Some ere this 
Had gazed upon the pallid corpse of him 
Whose blood was by an elder brother shed ; 
Then nature, tremblingly, stood aghast; and Grod, 
Before whose face a murdered brother's blood 
For retribution cried, in anger spoke, 



] 96 MOTHER'S DEA TH. 

And midst the gloom his vengeful powers displayed. 

!N^ow all was calm. Serene the sun declined, 

And naught except the breeze's silken hand 

Disturbed the ringlets on her fainting brow ; 

But soon a trembling seized that gentle form — 

A trembling passed through every nerve and limb — 

Unwonted paleness sat upon her face, 

And shortened breath spoke dissolution nigh. 

" Companion of my life," at length she said^ 
'^ The hour is come. The oft-lamented doom. 
Which by my guilt we both incurred, now waits 
Its consummation. Speak to me, once more, 
Forgiveness of the rash and dreadful deed 
Which exiled us from Eden's blissful shades 
To wander here and reap the bitter fruit 
Of our rebellious act." Sudden she ceased; 
For thought of joys for disobedience lost, 
And pain and death by her own hand incurred ; 
And more, the hatefulness of sin itself, 
Her utterance sealed. A look of tenderest love 
From Adam's moistened eye, her sorrows calmed. 
While from around full many a tear bespoke 



MOTHER'S DEATH. 197 

The strength and tenderness of filial love. 

" My children," she resumed, " you too have heard 

The tragic tale of Eden's shameful fall. 

'Tis woeful for a mother thus to name 

The sad inheritance she leaves to those 

She holds most dear. For you I still must grieve ; 

Yet weep not thus for me. Even now 

A shining seraph, from above, like those 

We often saw amid the fiowery walks 

Of Paradise, whispers into my ear, 

In accents sweet, of endless joy above. 

And bids me look on-high. There Abel lives ; 

And drest in robes of spotless innocence, 

Before the Golden Throne adoring bends. 

"With him a convoy of celestial ones 

Comes to attend my parting soul above, 

Where sin is known no more. 

" Hark ! they draw near ! 
I see them now ! Softly ! they beckon me 
To join their song — a song so sweet, like that 
They sung when erst they saw Creation's work 
Wrought and complete. But hark ! a single voice 



198 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

And one well known, I hear. 'Tis Abel's voice I 

And with a sweet-toned harp alone he sings 

A song unheard by all the heavenly choirs — 

The wonders of redeeming love ! That song 

My voice shall join. Behold, the Blest Supreme 

Extends a golden harp and bids me come ! 

Then quickly all farewell. 'Twill not be long ; 

For soon you, too, will join me there. Farewell!" 

Wliile thus she spoke, the solemn group had knelt 

Around her sylvan couch, with listening ear. 

To catch her every word. But when her voice. 

Which seemed new-tuned to join the blissful song. 

Pronounced that word " farewell," her eye stood iix'd, 

Reflecting, like some gentle sleeping lake, 

The silver beams of evening light ; and when 

The throbbing breast and quivering lips were stilled — 

And smiles which faded not illumed the cheek. 

As though the soul had left upon that face 

The impress of its joy — then first a cry 

Of anguish deep bespoke the heart-felt grief ; 

And mingled tears bedew'd that lovely form 

Forever stilled in death. 



MOTHERS DEATH. 199 

THE OLD HOME WITHOUT MOTHER. 

Albert Barns. 

IT makes a sad desolation when from a happy home 
a mother is taken away, and when, Avhatever may 
be the sorrows or successes of hfe, she is to greet the re- 
turning son or daughter no more. The home of our 
childhood may he still lovely. The family mansion — 
the green fields — the running stream — the moss-cov- 
ered well — the trees — the lawn — the rose — the sweet- 
brier may be there. Perchance, too, there may be an 
aged father, with venerable locks, sitting in his lone- 
liness, with everything to command respect and love ; 
but she is not there. The mother has been borne forth 
to sleep by the side of her children who went before 
her, and the place is not what it was. 

There may be those there whom we much love, 
but she is not there. We may have formed new rela- 
tions in life, tender and strong as they can be ; we may 
have another home, dear to us as was the home of our 
childhood, where there is all in afiection, kindness, and 
religion to make us happy, but that home is not what it 



200 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

was, and it will never be what it was again. It is a loos- 
ening of one of the cords which bound us to earth, de- 
signed to prepare us for our eternal flight from every- 
thing dear here below. 



LIFE is rfeal, life is earnest, 
And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
Was not spoken of the soul. 




MO THEWS BE A TH. 201 

MY MOTHEE. 

Mrs. Helen C. Smith. 

5fT^IS more than twenty years ago, in autumn cold 

J- and gray, 
My gentle mother closed her eyes and passed from earth 

away. 
Her wasted form, her palHd cheek, her sweet, angelic 

smile. 
Told us that death was hovering near, though lingering 

for awhile ; 
But on that morning, while the stars paled in the light 

of day. 
Amid the tears that vainly sought the dreaded hand to 

stay. 
He bore her happy spirit hence across the swelling tide. 
And half the light went out from home the hour my 

mother died. 

My youthful days have long since flown to the return- 
less shore. 
Yet oft in thought I live again those early seasons o'er ; 



202 MOTHER'S DEATH. 

My mother's calm and patient face, methinks I see it 

now, 
Her cheerful smile, the lines of care that marked her 

thoughtful brow ; 
Her loving eyes still look on me through parting mists 

of years, 
Her gentle voice still comforts me when I am bowed in 

tears ; 
I seem to see her form again, as once at close of day 
She stood within the open door and watched her child 

at play. 

And often in the dreams of night her cherished face I 

see, 
And 'mid the old familiar scenes once more I seem 

to be ; 
Once more her hand is on my head, once more her 

voice I hear 
Singing the hymns of other days, to memory ever dear. 
How often in the summer morn that voice rose clear 

and sweet 
In praise to God, while I, a child, followed her busy feet. 



MO THEB'S BE A TH. 203 

My mother's voice ! Fond memory can no richer 

treasure bring, 
j^o songs are half so sweet to me as those she used to 

sing. 

'^o tales so well remembered are as those rehearsed to 

me, 
A happy, trusting little child beside my mother's knee ^ 
Of all the gentle, loving words with which my life 

was blest. 
My own dear mother's were to me the wisest and the 

best. 
Yet oft as I look backward o'er the long, long waste of 

years. 
My heart is filled with sudden pain, my eyes grow dim 

with tears, 
As I recall with vain regret and many a secret smart, 
How oft, in times of waywardness, I grieved her tender 

heart. 

My mother, when I think of all thy self-forgetting 
zeal. 



204 MOTHER'S D EA TH. 

That sought another's grief to share, another's woes to 

heal ; 
The httle shining deeds of love the world not often 

sees, 
Ah me I I cannot count the worth of blessings such as 

these ! 
But still in fadeless memories they are treasured every 

one. 
Those little golden threads of life her hands so deftly 

spun ; 
And often as in reverie they come again to mind, 
I would that I might leave as rich a heritage behind. 



AT MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

WHE^ I think of my mother, how tender and lov- 
ing she always was to me, I am ashamed and 
humiliated that I am not a better man ; and when I 
visit her grave, I never fail to renew my vows of faith- 
fulness to her instructions and to Heaven. 



MOTHERS DEATH. 205 



SHE IS DYmG ! 



SHE is dying ! Big, cold drops are gathering 
On her forehead, smooth and high, 
And a more than earthly light is beaming 

In her wild and brilliant eye. 
'Keath the finger beats her pulse as lightly 

As a feather swayed by air ; 
And as cold as winter's snowy shrouding 
Are her hands so thin and fair. 

She is dying ! Ope the western Avindow 

Wide, and let the sunset ray 
Greet once more on earth her fading vision, 

Ere her spirit pass away. 
Let her breathe the pure sweet air of heaven ; 

Let her hear the wild bird's song — 
Quickly bring some water cool and limpid. 

Moist her parched lips and tongue. 

She is dying ! Loved ones are bending 
O'er her pale and wasted form ; 



206 MO THEWS DEA TH. 

One her icy hand is fondly pressing ; 

Tears of grief are gushing warm. 
]N'ow her bloodless lips are trem'lous moving — 

Brighter grows her brilliant eye — 
Ears are bent to catch the broken whisper 

Of her long and last good-by. 

She is dying! See the smile of rapture 

Playing on her pallid face ; 
Bright, seraphic forms are waiting — 

Soon she'll feel their sweet emljrace. 
It is finished ! Death's dread struggle's over ; 

IIom.eward has the spirit fled ; 
Cold and lifeless in the arms of the dread monster 

Lies the mother — she is dead. 





MO 






if 



RAYE, 



"vCZIw. 



^, ^^^^^^Sf^ ^ 



THE HOLY GRAVE. 

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOK. 

C. a Woods, D. JD. 

I stood alone, 
About me softly fell the shadows gray. 
The west that late had flushed with rosy tints 
Xow ashen grew as fled the sun afar 
Like maiden who with paling cheek beholds 
Her love depart. 

Alone, yet not alone ; 
The evergreen a kindly welcome waved, 
The rose-tree nodded as endowed with life 
And pity. The gentle breath of eve 
Fell on my heated brow as with 
A mother's loving kiss enriched. 
The marble white on Avhich I leaned 
Had gazed upon the sun until a warmth 
IL\d touched its heart. 

It brought no chill 
To thrill along my nerves and tell 
Of depths below. So tender was the hour, 

209 



210 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

A gentle peace descended on my heart 

And holy memories tilled my eyes with tears. 

Then through the mist that sorrow sent 

I read the legend carved upon the stone, 

It came from Holy Writ, and fitting 'twas 

The Word she loved so well should serve 

As epitaph : 

" Her children rise 

And call her hlessed ; her husband also, and 

He praiseth her." 

The device on the stone. 

Two hands in farewell clasp, with "Till 

We meet again," as if the passing spirit 

Whispered back to one to whom she gave 

In girlhood sweet, that priceless trust, 

A woman's heart. >i^ ^ ^ And he was dead. 

Then mused I, with a thrill of tender joy, 

" Bring chisel and remove that word which tells 

Of time: Leave only hands in greeting joined 

And ' We meet again ;' for they have met 

Ko more to sorrow o'er the ills 

Of earth, or hand in hand to tread the path 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 211 

Of pilgrims through tlie vale of tears ; 
But with new youth and fonder love endow^ed 
To hold sweet converse through the rosy hours 
Of that eternal day." 

The liofht of sun 
Was long since gone, and darkness grew apace, 
Yet in my heart a light diviner fell — 
The dust beneath me, though so holy, was 
Eut dust — my mother was not there ; 
But safe with God and dear ones gone before, 
^""ot there; yet will that lowly grave 
JBe Mecca to my wandering feet until 
I cross the river dark, and tread 
The shining way. 




212 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

TRIBUTE TO A MOTHER. 

Lord Macaulay. 

CHILDREN, look in those eyes, listen to that dear 
voice, notice the feeling of even a single touch 
that is bestowed upon you by that gentle hand ; make 
much of it while you have that most precious of all 
gifts, a loving mother. Read the unfathomable love of 
those eyes, the anxiety in that tone and look, however 
slight your pain. In after life you may have friends, 
fond, dear friends; but never will you have again the 
inexpressible love and gentleness lavished upon you 
which none but a mother bestows. Often do I sigh in 
my struggles with the dark, uncaring world for the 
sweet, deep security I felt when, of an evening nestling 
in her bosom, I listened to some quiet tale suited to my 
age, read in her tender and untiring voice. Xever can 
I forget the sweet glances cast upon me when I ap- 
peared asleep ; never her kiss of peace at night. Years 
have passed away since we laid her beside my father in 
the old church-yard, and still her voice whispers from 
the grave, and her eye watches over me, as I visit sjDots 
long since hallowed to the memory of my mother. 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 213 



MY MOTHER. 



M 



Y mother ! long, long years have passed 
Since half in wonder, half in dread, 
I looked upon thy clay-cold face, 

And heard the whisper — '' She is dead." 



The memory of thine earthly form 

Is dim as a remembered dream ; 
But year by year more close to mine 

Doth thy celestial spirit seem. 

When by the mouldering stone I stood, 

Which marks the spot where thou art laid. 

And with the daisies on the sod, 
My little child in gladness played. 

Oh, how my spirit longed to know 
If from the heiglits of heavenly joy. 

The love that watched my infant years, 
Looked down to bless my bright-eyed boy. 



214 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

^'SHE ALWAYS MADE HOME HAPPY.'' 

1^ an old cliurcli-yard stood a stone 
AYeatlier-niarked and stained ; 
The hand of time had crumbled it, 

So only part remained. 
Upon one side I could just trace, 

"- In memory of our mother ;" 
An epitaph -which spoke of h(^me 
Was chiseled on the other. 

I've gazed on monuments of fame. 

High towering to the skies ; 
Pve seen the sculptured marljle stone 

Where a great hero lies ; 
BjLit by this epitaph I paused 

And read it o'er and o'er, 
For I had never seen inscribed 

Such words as these before. 

'' She always made home happy." What 

A noble record left ; 
A legacy of memor}^ sweet 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 215 

To those she loved, bereft ; 
And what a testimony given 

By those who knew her best, 
Engraven on this plain rude stone 

That marked their mother's rest. 

So when w^as stilled her weary heart. 

Folded her hands so white, 
And she was carried from the home 

She'd always made so bright, 
Her children raised a monument 

That money could not buy. 
As witness of a noble life, 

Whose record is on-high. 

A noble life, but written not 

In any book of fame ; 
Among the list of noted ones 

Xone ever saw her name ; 
For only her own household knew 

The victories she had won, 
And none but they could testify 

How well her work was done. 



216 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

M. C. Henderson. 

THE grave of my mother is on an elevation that 
overlooks a beautiful village where many an hour 
was spent in study and recreation in days of boyhood. 
A marble slab marks the place where we laid her to 
rest, nearly a score of years ago. Occasionally during 
these years have we stood by her grave, while precious 
remembrances have crowded upon our mind, and the 
sweet hope of meeting again cheered our sad hearts 
burdened Avith care and the responsibilities of life, and 
our home far away ; but a mother's grave, with all the 
hallowed associations clustering around, can ncA-er he 
forgotten. 

The grave of a mother is indeed a sacred spot. It 
may be retired from the noise of business, and un- 
noticed by the stranger, but to our hearts so dear. Tlie 
love we bear to a mother is not measured by years, is 
not annihilated by distance, nor forgotten when she 
sleeps in dust. Marks of age may appear in our homes, 
and on our persons, but the memory of a mother is 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 217 

more enduring than time itself. Who has stood hy the 
grave of a mother and not remembered her pleasant 
smiles, kind words, earnest prayers, and assurances ex- 
pressed in a dying hour. Many years may have passed 
away, memory may be treacherous in other things, but 
will reproduce with freshness the impressions once 
made by a mother's influence. Why may we not lin- 
ger where rests all that was earthly of a sainted 
mother ? It may have a restraining influence upon 
the wayward, prove a valuable incentive to increased 
faithfulness, encourage hope in the hour of depression, 
and give fresh inspiration in Christian life. 




:218 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

OYER MY MOTHER'S GRAYE. 

1L0YE to stay where my mother sleeps, 
And gaze on each star as it twiukUng peeps, 
Through the bending willow which lonely weeps 
Over my mother's grave. 

I love to kneel on the green turf there, 
Afar from the scenes of my daily care, 
And breathe to my Savior my evening prayer 
Over my mother's grave. 

I well remember how oft she led, 
And knelt me by her as with God she plead. 
That I might be his when the sod was spread 
Over my mother's grave. 

I love to think how 'neath the ground, 
She slumbers in death as a captive bound ; 
But she'll slumber no more at the trumpet sound 
Over my mother's grave. 

— Apples of Gold. 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 219 



MEDITATIONS. 

Once more the grave is opened, 
The coiRn and the shroud "^^ * * 
Prepared, and the dead laid out for buriaL Swift 
And sudden came the blow, and the freed spirit 
Took its heavenward Hight, and rested with its God. 

Grief is dumb, and 
Sympathy is silent here. ^N^one but children know — 
Thy children, mother ; their hearts alone can tell 
Thy worth, thy love, thy tender watchfulness. 
Lono; vears of care and fond endearment, and khid words 
Of excellent instruction, have firm enstamped 
On memory's tablet what no words can tell, and 
What sorrow in her silent depths, at the sad loss, 
Alone can know. Oh, mother, mother, thou art gone ; 
The hearth thy presence honored noAV is lone 
And desolate. Tears are here, and the sable robes 
Of mourning through these halls glide gloomily, for 
Thou, our joy, our love, our dear, dear mother, art not. 
Oh, w^e see thee now^ as in past happier times 



220 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

We saw thee, as with that old worn Bible on thy knees 

Thou didst read its living pages, and gather thence 

Its truths divine and heavenly sweets. We hear thy 

Kind words of teaching from its pure Oracles, 

And tell thy warm desire that we might find its hopes 

Our hopes, its Faith, as thine, our chiefest stay. Mother, 

Tell us — Do bright spirits know each face in heaven ? 

Do tliey mingle hearts which once on earth were joined? 

Do they speak of earthly meeting, and bring past joys 

To mind? Oh, then we'll part with thee with chastened 

hearts, 

For thou art there, and ^vq will cherish all thy words, 

And meet thee in the skies in high and heavenly 

Converse, to part not forever, ever more. 

— Lewellyn. 




MOTHER'S GRAVE, 221 

AT MOTHER'S GEAYE, 

James Aldrich. 

I'N beauty lingers on the hills 
The death smile of the dying day, 
And twilight in my heart instills 

The softness of its ray. 
I watch the river's peaceful flow 

Here standing by my mother's grave, 
And feel my dreams of glory go, 

Like weeds upon its struggling wave. 

God gives us ministers of love 

Which we regard not, being near. 
Death takes them from us — then we feel 

That angels have been with us here ! 
As mother, sister, friend, or wife. 

They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain; 
And when the grave has closed between 

Our hearts and theirs, we love in vain. 

Would, mother, thou couldst hear me tell 
How oft, amid my brief career. 



222 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

For sins and follies loved too well 
Hath fallen the free repentant tear ; 

And in my waywardness of youth, 
How bitter thoughts have given to me 

Contempt for error, love for truth, 
Mid sweet remembrances of thee. 

The harvest of my youth is done, 

And manhood come with all its cares, 
Finds garnered up within my heart 

For every flower, a thousand tears. 
Dear mother, couldst thou know my thoughts, 

Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine, 
The depths of feeling in my heart, 

Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine. 



THERE is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep. 
Low in the ground. 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 003 



WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

George D. Prentice. 

THE trembling dew-drops fall 
Upon the opening flowers like souls at rest ; 
The stars shine gloriously, and all 
Save me are blest. 

Mother, I love thy grave, 

The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, 
AVaves o'er thy head ; when shall it Avave 

Above thy child ? 

'Tis a sweet, sweet flower, yet must 

Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow ; 

Dear mother, 'tis thine emblem ; dust 
Is on thy brow. 

And I could love to die ; 

To leave untasted life's dark bitter streams — 
By thee, as erst in childhood lie. 

And share thy dreams. 



224 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

But I must linger here 

To stain the plumage of my sinless years, 
And mourn the hopes to childhood dear, 

With bitter tears. 

Aye, I must linger here, 

A lonely branch upon a withered tree, 
Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere, 

Went down with thee. 

Oft from life's withered bower, 

in still communion with the past, I turn 
And muse on thee, the only flower 

In memory's urn. 

Where is thy spirit flown ? 

I gaze above — thy look is imaged there ; 
I listen — and thy gentle tone 

Is on the air. 

0, come while here I press 

My brow upon thy grave ; and in those mild 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 225 

And thrilling tones of tenderness, 
Bless, bless thy child ! 

And when the evening pale 

Bows, like a mourner on the dim blue wave, 
I stay to hear the night winds wail 

Around thv ofrave. 



ALOI^E. 

1WAS forty years old when mother died, was mar- 
ried, and she had nursed my children ; but I never 
felt more alone in the world than when I turned away 
from her new-made graA^e. 



226 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

SHE SLEEPS. 

Sarah K. Bolton, 

Slie sleeps, she sleeps ! 

When the morning light 
Disperses the shadows of solemn night, 
When clew-clrops are gleaming on leaf and spray,. 
When hlossoms are wooing the new-horn day ; 
When hright hirds are singing o'er hill and glen — 

Will she wake, will she speak 

To her loved ones then ? 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 

When the day-heam dies 
In the crimson and gold of the evening skies. 
When the south wind whispereth low and sweet ;; 
When the starlight conies with its silvery feet ; 
When night brings rest to the homes of men — 

Will she wake, will she speak 
. To her loved ones then ? 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 
When the gentle spring 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 227 

Returns from its sontliland wandering ; 
When the breezes sing and the children phiy ; 
When- the reapers scatter the new-mown hay; 
When they gather the sheaves of the goklen grain — 

Will she wake, will she come 

To her home again ? 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 

When the chilly winds 
Shake the }'ellow leaves from the withered vines ; 
When the autumn moon is full and red ; 
When the birds are gone and the flowers are dead ; 
When the frost on the sward lies deep and hoar — 

Will she wake, will she come 

To her home once more ? 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 

When they meet at night 
In the cheerful glow of the home-lire's light ; 
A\"hen the wintry winds are wild and high ; 
When clouds are black in the cold gray sky ; 
AVhen her husl)ancf s brow is pale with care — 



228 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

Will she wake, will she come 
To her dear ones there ? 

She sleeps, she sleeps ! 

And never more 
"Will her footsteps fall by the old home door, 
Nor her voice be heard with its lovins: tone 
Ey the lone ones left ronnd her own hearth-stone , 
She has gone, she has gone to her home afar — 

To the beautiful land 

Where the angels are. 




MOTHERS GRAVE. 229 



•:neaeee thee. 

MOTHER ! dear mother ! the feehngs nurst 
As I hung at thy hosom, clung round thee first ; 
'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain — 
'Tis the only one that will long remain ; 
And as year by year and day by day 
Some friend still trusted drops away, 
Mother ! dear mother ! oh, dost thou see 
How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee. 



UNDER THE VIOLETS. 

HER hands are cold ; her face is white ; 
Xo more her pulses come and go ! 
Her eyes are shut to life and light — 
Eold the white vesture, snow on snow. 
And lay her where the violets blow. 



230 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



M 



MEDITATIONS AT THE GEAYE. 

"Y departed mother once visited with me this 
lonely phice, and thought and felt as I do now 
as she looked ii]3on the graves of others ; but sickness 
came — death came — and the funeral obsequies; and 
here now she reposes until wakened by the voice of the 
Son of God. Mortal — all are mortal ; I will not thrust 
you from my mind, ye thoughts of frailty, for ye are 
messengers come from Heaven's high throne, to assist \\\ 
binding my fleeting life to that which is immutable nnd 
eternal. I know, I feel, I too must die! True, this 
world is bright and beautiful, and it wearies me not ; 
health flows through my veins and glows in my cheek ; 
strength nerves my arms, and strong are the pulsations 
of my heart; my business, my family, and the many 
objects I wish to accomplish do press and clamor for 
death's delay; but he, the inexorable King of Terror, 
heeds not their voice, but disdains their entreaties. 
Death is coming ; he has been approaching me year by 
ear, and day by day. The passing hour;^, and niin- 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 231 

iites, and seconds tell nie as they fly that he is coniino; 
nearer. With an eagle's eye he holds me in view, and 
with a lion's heart he follows upon my path ; in the city 
or in the forest, hy land or hy sea, hy night or hy day, 
he never falters nor wearies. 0, yes, I feel as I gaze npon 
3'onder setting sun, that I have one day less — and now 
that gorgeous glow upon the mountain-top vanishes, 
and dies away in the starlit heavens — yes, one hour less 
to live, since I came here to commune with my mother, 
and with the dead. Yes, my last sickness will come — 
my physician will he calm and silent, he will breathe no 
word of hope, — my wife and children will weep around 
my bed — through the rooms with wliich I have been 
familiar for many years, it will be whispered, '■'he is dying /" 
and I will see the shadow of him Avho has so long pur- 
sued me fall upon my path — and I shall feel his skele- 
ton hands clutch my heart-strings, while his icy em- 
braces freeze my blood, and the tide of life stands still. 
Then it will be whispered through the house, " It is all 
over, he is dead !" All still — only the sobs of weeping 
loved ones will echo through that chamber where I 
bowed to the biddino- of death. Cold and insensible 



232 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

shall I lie, wliile the vigils of friendship shall be 
kept for the last night that I shall ever spend in my 
long and fondly-cherished home. And the morning 
light of another day will break, bnt I shall not welcome 
its coming. The chirping of the swallows and notes of 
the robin and thrush will not ravish my ears. The 
beautiful landscape, over which my eyes wandered with 
so much delight in early morn, will not be surveyed by 
me. Friends will gather around me, and draw aside 
the curtains to let in the light of day, that they may 
look upon my face, but I Avill not knoAV them. They 
will caress and kiss the lifeless form, but my heart will 
not thrill under the pressure of affection's hand, nor 
my lips throw back the gloAV of friendship's kiss, ^o ; 
I shall be dead! They will shroud me for my burial, 
but I shall not behold my white apparel. They will lay 
me in the coffin, and I shall offer no resistance. My 
familiar friends will gaze upon me there, but I shall not 
return their look. And those whom I most loved will 
give their last long look, and I am then shut out from the 
world in which I have lived and moved. Gently is the 
lid laid over my face, and screwed fast. ^N'eighbors and 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 233 

friends are gathered, and I am carried out of my house, 
never more to return. Even my name will pass from 
it, and strangers will dwell there. The funeral cortage 
will move sadly away from those ancient trees, and over 
that familiar road to this silent abode of the dead. And 
here they will lay me in the grave as they did my 
mother, by whose tomb I write. And the man of God 
will utter the solemn but hopeful words, " We commit 
this body to the ground— earth to earth, ashes to ashes, 
dust to dust — in hope of the general resurrection and 
the life of the world to come." 

And, having performed this last sad office, they will 
return to their homes and leave me. I shall be alone 
in the grave; alone shall I slumber. Strangers will 
read my brief history, which the hand of friendship 
may chronicle upon the marble, and then turn away 
with a sigh, and say, "• Such is the end of man." Those 
m whose memories I -may live will often come to strew 
flowers over my grave and drop a tear of affection. 
They will plant the rose, the lily, and the evergreen, as 
emblems of a fragrant and beautiful immortality which 
they assign me in the Paradise of God. All this will 



234 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

take place with me — yes, all may say with ine. Ah I 

it is a solemn thought, that every step brings us nearer 

to the grave ; a solemn thought that there is but one 

passage to eternity, and that lies through " death's iron 

gate." For — 

'' Sure, 'tis a serious thing to die, my soul ! 
What a strange moment must it be, when near 
Thy journey's end thou hast the gulf in view 1 
That awful gulf no mortal e'er repass'd, 
To tell what's doing on the other side !" 




MOTHERS GRAVE. 235 



MOTHEE. 

Mary Mapes Dodge. 

EARLY one summer morning, 
I saw two children pass, 
Their footsteps slow, yet lithesome, 

Scarce bent the tender grass. 
One lately out of babyhood 

Looked up with eager eyes ; 
The other watched her wistfully, 

Oppressed with smothered sighs. 
'' See, mother," cried the little one, 

" I gathered them for you, 
The sweetest flowers and lilies, — 

And Mabel has some too." 
"Hush [NTellie," whispered Mabel, 

"We have not reached it yet, 
Wait till we get there, my darling, 

It isn't far, my pet." 
" Get where?" asked l^elhe, "tell me.'" 

" To the church-yard," Mabel said. 



536 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

'' IvTo! no!" cried little ]^ellie 



And shook her sunny liead. 
Still Mabel whispered sadly, 

" We must take them to the grave, 
Come, darling;" and the childish voice 

Tried to be clear ami brace. 
But Nellie still kept calling 

Far up into the blue : 
" See, mother, see how pretty ! 

We gathered them for you." 

And when her sister pleaded. 
And cried and would not o'o — 

^' Angels don't live in church-yards, 
My mother don't, I know." 

Then Mabel bent and kissed her, 

" So be it dear," she said, 
" We'll take them to the arl)or 

And lay them there instead, ^ 

Por mother loved it dearly. 

It was the sweetest x^hice I" 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 237 

And the joy that came to Kellie 
Shone up in Mabel's face. 

I saw them turn and follow 

A path with blossoms bright 
Until the nodding branches 

Concealed them from my sight. 
But still, like sweetest music, 

The words came ringing through : 
^' See, mother, see how pretty ! 

We gathered them for you." 




238 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 



AT THE SEPULCHRE. 

HOW faded and dead that rose seems. But a few 
days since and it was one of the most beautiful 
that grew here. It came ont early in the spring, and 
from the day it iirst commenced to bloom, it has been 
my favorite and pet. I have watered and nursed it. 
day after day, and have w^atched its Avide leaves unfold- 
ing themselves with a "more than ordinary interest. I 
love flowers dearly, and the more when they are so very 
beautiful. I love, too, to pluck and carry them to those 
whose hearts are warm in sympathy with mine. This, 
I think, is a fitting place for them to bloom, and hei'e 
their tender language is doubly sweet. Ho w- beautiful 
that red rose ; its language is that of love. And how 
appropriate ; for none but our best, and most sacred, and 
lovinsc emotions are awakened when we are here. 
Here the ordinary difliculties of life are forgotten, and 
we feel that we are walking among the dead. Here Ave 
come to cultivate the feelings of tender regard for those 
Avlio sleep in these silent sepulchres. Here friends and 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 



239 



enemies lie side by side, and no discordant note dis- 
turbs the stillness of their long, long sleep. Here, too, 
the rose, in all its crimson hues, blooms out above 
them, filling the air with its fragrance, and lifting its 
tender arms up toAvard that land where love reigns 
supreme. But this one, this withered one, that I have 
loved and cherished so much, it has wihed and the cold 
chilling wunds of death have paled its crimson leaves. 
So fade and die those we love most and dearest. 
Early in the spring-time, its parent stem, reaching up, 
twined its tiny fingers about the branches of this little 
bush, where, see, it still clings. "When the flower com- 
menced to unfold its pretty leaves, I was so delighted 
with their beauty that I have ever since watched and 
nourished it with cherished feelings of love and tender- 
ness ; not for the evenness of its color, but for the 
beauty of its zigzag capillaries that ran promiscuously 
through its leaves, and for the fresh life with which it 
was clothed. But it has withered, and its drooping 
head leans down toward the homes of the dead. Yes- 
terday it was bright and beautiful ; but when this morn- 
ing's sun came up, it wihed, and drooped, and died. 



240 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

Ah, how soon the most lovely objects of earth flyawaj. 
To-day, the youth is full of life and health, his cheek 
blooms as the rose, and he plans for years to come ; but 
to-morrow, the fell destroyer lays his withering hand 
upon him, and he fades and dies, as has this rose. IIow 
true that life's joys are fleeting, and that we have no 
abiding city here. But there is a land where we shall 
gather flowers that will not fade, and where our friends 
shall die no more. 

Many times have we visited this beautiful place. 
and watered and watched these flowers as they have 
unfolded above mother's grave, and the graves of the 
little children buried from her home. Here mother 
sleeps in holy quiet, while these flowers bloom over her 
silent abode. Here, too, is Dottle's grave, the child 
over whom she wept bitter tears, and at whose grave 
she planted flowers that still bloom as the summers 
come and go. 

Yonder is a sister's, and there a brother's grave ; 
and all around are the graves of our neighbors — those 
we knew and loved in years long gone ; and here by 
mother's side is a vacant place for us. When she died 



MOTHERS GRAVE, 241 

it was her request that we be buried by her side. 
Some time a grave will be dug here, and we will be 
brought and buried low in the ground. Then loved 
ones will plant flowers over us, and water them ; 
and, perhaps, care for them as we care for these. 
Friends will visit these grounds, and as they pass my 
grave, will linger for a Avhile and talk of me and of my 
life's work. They will speak of the book I am now 
writing, of my mother, and of the love I cherished for 
her, and of how lonely life was to me when she was 
gone ; they will talk of those buried near me here, and, 
perhaps, of the want of care about my grave, and then 
pass on. My childreil will gather flowers, and scatter 
tliem over my grave ; and talk of Iioav I suflered before 
I died, and how I loved them, and tried to care for 
them, and provide for them. They will speak of the 
last few days of my life, of the physician who attended 
me in my last illness, and of those who were present 
when I died. How strange it will be when my hands 
are folded across my breast and I am laid in a cofiin, 
and buried here in this cold ground, where no one can 
ever look on me again. Dear mother, speak to me; tell 



242 MOTHEICS GRAVE. 

me how it seems to be covered np in the grave ? My 
heart is crushed in sadness, and I long for one word ; 
one token that will inspire my languid hope. Mother, 
speak to me ! But, alas ! I know that mother cannot 
speak, and so will it be with me some time. I will be 
buried here ; I will be shut up in a coffin and lowered 
in the ground, and the man of God will say, " Dust to 
dust and ashes to ashes." I will be left deep down in 
the dreadful grave, the clods will be tumbled in on top 
of me, and I will sleep that sleep that knows no wak- 
ing. Dear me, how awful the thought ! How will I 
escape ? Where can I iiy away so that this frightful 
fate may not be mine? What can I do that I may not 
die and be buried ? Oh, the cold and cruel grave ! 
But, alas, I must come here, and be buried in the 
ground ! May my mother's God help me to meet this 
fate Avith courage; that I may die as she died, full of 
faith and hope. 

" That awful day will surely come, 
The appointed hour makes haste 
When I must stand before my Judge, 
And pass the solemn test." 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 248 



THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. 

3frs. Felicia Hemans. 

Come nearer ! — ere yet the dust 
Soil the briglit paleness of the settled brow, 
Look on your mother and embrace her now 

Li still and solenni trust ! 
Come nearer! — once more let kindred lips be pressed 
On her cold cheek ; then bear her to her rest ! 

Yet weep, and it is Avell ; 
Eor tears befit earth's partings ! — Yesterday 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay. 

And sunshine seemed to dwell 
Where'er she moved — the welcome and the blessed ; — • 
Now gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest. 

Look yet upon her, whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth ! 
Was she not fair amid the sons of earth. 

The beings born to die ? — 



244 MOTHER'S GRAVE, 

But now where death has power, may love be blessed 
Come near, and bear ye the beloved to rest. 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
"Whose spmt's hght is quenched ! — for her the past 
Is sealed. She may not fall, she may not cast 

Her brightest hope aAvay ; 
All is not here of our beloved and blessed — 
Lsave ye the sleeper with her God t > rest. 



THOU angel spirit, who so oft didst sing 
My infant cares to sleep upon thy breast,, 
Let me but hear the rustling of thy wing. 
Around thy child its guardian influence fiing ! 
Oh, come thou from the islands of the blest. 
And bear my weary soul up to thy sainted rest f. 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 245 



DEATH AND FU^EEAL. 

TITEiN died lamented in the strength of hfe 
A valued mother. 
All her ties the strong invader broke, 
In all their strength, in one tremendous stroke ; 
Sudden and swift the eager pest came on, 
And terror grew till every hope was gone. 

■Slowly they bore with solemn steps the dead. 
When grief grew loud, and bitter tears were shed. 

"We left her in the silent grave alone, 
The mother we shall never cease to moan. 

Arrived at home, how then we gazed ai'ound, 

In every place where she no more was found ; 

The seat at table she was wont to fill ; 

The fireside chair, still set, but vacant still ; 

The garden-walks, a labor all her own ; 

The lattice bower, with trailing shrubs o'ergrown 

The Sunday pew she filled with all her race ; — 



246 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

Each place of hers was now a sacred place, 
That, while it called up sorrows in the eyes, 
Pierced the full heart and forced them still to rise. 

Oh, sacred sorrow hy whom souls are tried, 
Sent not to punish mortals, hut to guide ; 
Still let me feel for what the pangs are sent, 
And he my guide, and not my punishment. 



M 



Y stricken heart to Jesus yields 
Love's deep devotion now ; 



Adores and hlesses — while it hleeds — 
His hauii that strikes the blow. 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 247 



HALLOWED GROUND. 

COME unto the clinrcli-yard near, 
"Where the gentle whispering breeze 
Softly rustleth through the trees ; 
Where the moonbeam pure and white, 
Falls in floods of cloudless light, 
Bathing many a turfy heap 
Where the lowlier slumberers sleep ; 
And the graceful willow waves, 
Banner-like, o'er many graves ; 
Here hath prayers arisen like dews, — 
Here the earth is holy, too ; 
Lightly press each grassy mound; 
Surely, this is hallowed ground. 



248 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

lIEART-TimOBS. 

F. li. Anspach. 

VISITS to the places where our departed repose are 
prompted by tlie instincts of humanity and the 
suggestions of love. They have been withdrawn from 
those circles which their presence made glad. Their 
voices mingle no more in the hymn of praise which 
rises around the family altar ; they are not of the num- 
ber which meet around the cheerful hearth, and in their 
retirement they claim from us an occasional visit to 
their graves. The remotest period in my history to 
which naemory points is when, about 'Q.ve years of age, 
I was alone in the green lawn that stretches out before 
the home of my childhood, calling my sainted mother, 
and wondering why she did not answer my call and 
hasten to my side. And, were it permitted, would she 
not have withdrawn herself from her angel companions 
and winged her flight to the presence of her lonely 
child ? Yea, I know not but that she was present with 
me, and her gentle spirit may have held my thoughts 
in communion with her. It is a beautiful and consolino- 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 249 

thought, and one certainly not in conflict with, but 
rather encouraged by, the teachings of inspiration, that 
^YQ have our guardian angels to accompany us through 
life ; to minister to us in a way we know not ; yet 
defending us from the assaults of the tempter, and 
bearing us safely through the dangers which encompass 
the road in which we travel. God promised to Israel 
that his angel should guide and guard them through 
all their wanderings. And by whom, among the armies 
of those spirits around Jehovah's throne, woukl the 
office to guard and guide us be more fondly accepted, 
and more faithfully executed, than by those who have 
been removed from us, but who still love us ? 

The doctrine concerning guardian angels, though 
perhaps not as clearly revealed as many others, yet has 
its foundation in that universality of belief which 
clothes any dogma with something of a divine sanc- 
tion. It may be regarded as belonging to that class of 
truths which enter into all creeds, because they have 
never been questioned, but always received the cheerfal 
assent of the hearts and minds of all men. The Jews 
firmly beheved that it was the prerogative of each one to 



250 MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

be accompanied by an angel, wbose office was to shield 
tbem from those destructive influences, physical and 
moral, by which they were surrounded. And the be- 
lief in guardian angels is equally general among 
Christians. And if the idea were even imaginary, and 
possessed nothing real in itself, it would still be well to 
cherish the belief for the sake of the influence which 
this persuasion exerts upon the mind. For by a law of 
nature, as powerful as it is sure in its operations, man 
becomes gradually identified with the feelings and sen- 
timents of his companions, until he is altogether assim- 
ilated to their character. If we are continually asso- 
ciated with persons whose minds are cultivated, and 
whose characters are adorned with lofty virtues, we 
will perhaps inperceptibly, yet steadily, rise to that in- 
tellectual and moral elevation which they occupy, and 
ultimately be conscious of a perfect harmony of senti- 
ment, of taste and disposition with those who have at- 
tracted and moulded our spirits into the image of their 
own. And in view of these results which the law of 
intercourse invariably produces, the persuasion of at- 
tendant spirits will necessarily exert an elevating and 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 251 

purifying influence upon us. Our intellectual and 
moral exercises will partake of tlie dignity and 
sanctity wliich are peculiar to those of angelic beings. 
And if to this we add the consideration that among 
those invisible ministers commissioned to guard us, 
there is one whom we fondly cherish ; a sainted mother 
moving with us through this busy and busthng world ;. 
hovering about our path by sea or by land, by day or by 
night, in public and in private, a spectator of all our 
actions and a witness of all our ways ; will not this con- 
viction be a sleepless prompter to virtue, and a constant 
monitor to warn us against vice ? Will not the felt 
nearness of some such beloved spirit animate us in 
every good work, and make us strong in every conflict ? 
Is it at the grave of a beloved mother where we 
stand? My mother! what a world of thought^ 
what an ocean of bhss there is in this holy word ! 
Yes, here sleeps my mother. She who forgot the 
an2;uish of her soul in her joy that I was born. She 
whose eyes were held waking over my infancy, when 
all others slumbered but the eye above. She whose 
love rendered her perceptions so keen and far-sighted 



252 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

that she perceived and guarded me against dangers 
while they were yet distant. She who quieted my 
feehle cries on her gentle bosom. She who first bent 
over me in devout supplications. She whose last words 
were words of blessing, and whose angel spirit, as it rose 
from that couch of suffering to eternal mansions, shook 
from its wings the incense of 2:)rayer upon my head. 
Blessed holy one, who lived in her child. Rejoiced when 
I was happy ; was in anguish when I was pained. The 
first to know and to relieve my sorrows. The first to be 
hiterested in my childish prattle, and to guide my tot- 
tering footsteps. Dear departed one ! shall I not here 
recall thy watchful care and unwearied love, and thank 
the Good Being who gave me such a treasure in thee? 
Such thoughts and feelings are fitting at such a place 
where a mother sleeps, and becoming those Avho can ap- 
preciate a mother's affection. For who that has enjoy- 
ed her care, and received her instructions, may not 
breathe out his soul in sentiments such as shine in the 

poem of Cowper, on the receipt of his mother's 
23ortrait ? — 

" My mother ! manhood's anxious brow 
And sterner cares have long been mine, 



MOTHERS GRAVE. 253^ 

Yet turn I to thee fondly noAV, 

As when upon thy bosom's shrine 

My infant griefs were gently hushed to rest, 

And thy low whisper'd prayers my slumber blest.. 

I've por'd o'er many a yellow page 
Of ancient wisdom, and have won, 

Perchance, a scholar's name — but sage 
Or bard have never taught thy son 

Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth. 

As those his mother's faith shed on his youth." 

But, perhaps, some of my readers may have had 
the misfortune, like the writer of these pages, to lose- 
their mother before they could know her, or appreciate 
her Avorth. And O wdiat reflections are those of 
which we are conscious at her toml) ! If we could but 
recall her image, or the accents of her voice, or the 
thrilling touch of a mother's caresses ! Alas ! all this, 
is denied to some, and there is nothing left to tell them 
how she looked; for there were few pencils then 
employed to transfer the image of the living upon the 
canvas, and the sunbeam had not then learned to 
engrave likenesses upon the polished plate. Did I say 
there w^as nothing left to assist the imagination in the 
creation of her image ? 0, yes ; every virtue wdnch 



254 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

ln'iglitens our character was warmed into life by 
lier love. For, altliougli the seeds of those virtues 
wdiich adorn our characters are divine, because they 
came from heaven, yet were they planted by a mother's 
hand and watered by a mother's tears ; and they have 
matured in our lives, because the eye of a covenant- 
keeping God rested upon her prayers, as chronicled in 
his book. my beloved, my sainted mother ! Though 
I never looked upon thy face to know thee ; though not 
conscious at the time that it was the music of thy 
throbbing heart that lulled me into peaceful slumbers ; 
though unknown to the sense of my sight, my spirit 
knows thee, and no human heart has ever thrilled with 
a holier love than mine for thee ! Yet again shall I be 
folded in thy embrace ; for thy tomb reminds me that 
I am mortal, and thy prayers have prevailed witli God, 
for thy son is on his pilgrimage to Zion ; and when 
weary and wayworn on my journey, the»thought that I 
shall know thee in heaven as my mother, animates me 
with new strength, and I press onwards to our blessed 
home on-high. 



MOTHER'S GRAVE. 255 

THE EEPOSE OF THE HOLY DEAD. 

THEEE is no place where Christianity glows with 
such a divine lustre, and where its consolations 
are so precious and sublime, as at the grave where we 
commit a cherished one to rest. Its hopes loom out 
upon the gloom that oppresses the heart there as the 
sun when it bursts full-orbed through the dark storm- 
clouds which obscure the canopy of heaven. However 
much we may have pondered the mysteries of the 
gospel and appreciated its lessons, we can never under- 
stand its priceless value so fully as when its light bursts 
through our clouds of dark calamity, and spans them 
with the bow of promise, as its rays are reflected by our 
tears. We may have often heard and read the blessed 
announcement ''that Christ brought life and immor- 
tality to light," but there we feel it. We may have ad- 
mired that charming promise, " When thou goest 
through the Avaters I will be with thee, and through 
the rivers they shall not overflow thee ; when thou 
walkest through the fire thou shalt not be burnt, 
neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the 



256 MOTHERS GRAVE. 

Lord, tliy God, tlie Holy One of Israel, thy Savior.''' 
But, ineffably more precious did Ave find this promise 
in our deep afflictions, when our souls felt the conscious 
presence and support of the everlasting arms under- 
neath us. As the rose gives out its most delicious fra- 
grance when it is crushed, so do the promises of (rod 
breathe their healing balm most effectually when pressed 
upon hearts broken with sorrow. 



SAIJN^TLY SYMPATHY. 

WHE^N^ once we close our eyes in death,, 
And flesh and spirit sever ; 
When earth, and fatherland, and home, 
"With all their beauty, sink in gloom- — 
Say, will it be forever ? 

Will we, in heaven, no more review 

Those scenes from which we sever? 

Or will our recollections leap 

O'er death's dark gulf, at times, to keep 
With earth acquaintance ever ? 



oO. 




Y 



MOTHER'S 



OME IN SEA¥ 



W 



\.i 



.^. 



-S^i- ^^:^^« 



THE AI^GEL OF THE HOUSE. 

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THIS BOOK. 

Susan E. Wallace {Mrs. Gen. Lew. Wallace). 

Vain is any attempt to measure tlie loss of a mother 
to lier little cliildren ; after all the poets have sung and 
lovers dreamed, outside of heaven there is no love like 
mother-love. We beheve the tender care devoted to 
those nearest and dearest, went with her to the better 
land, and in the possibilities of eternity, may be 
needed hereafter. "We fancy her awaiting them in the 
place prepared for her, a little apart from the innumer- 
able company in bright array ; perhaps in one of the 

" palaces of ivory, 

Its windows crystal clear," 
of wdiich old Bonar quaintly sung. In the light, not 
of the sun, neither of the moon, we see her beyond 
the fields of fadeless asphodel, under the waving palms, 
beside the still waters bordered with silver lilies. 
These may be merely figures, but they bear a precious 
meaning to yearning hearts made for the deep house- 
hold loves ; hearts that will not be comforted because 
the Angel of the House is missing. - 

259 



260 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEN. 

OUR FUTURE HOME. 

HEAYE^ is the central point of the universe of 
God. If we are allowed to reason from analogy 
on a subject like this, we might make out more than a 
plausible or probable proof. If we examine any thing 
that is systematically arranged, we shall discover that it 
contains some controlling principle or power, which 
governs the entire structure ; so that every system has 
a central point to which all that forms a part of it tends. 
It is to the centre of the earth that all the things 
within the range of our atmosphere gravitate. And in 
like manner, all the planetary systems have their 
central suns, around which they perform their revolu- 
tions. And if so, is it not a warrantable conclusion, 
that God, whose controlling energy fills the universe, 
has chosen the centre of his vast dominions as his own 
appropriate residence, where he will perpetually reside 
with all his saints ? The ojDinion certainly commends 
itself to our judgment, and also falls in with the gor- 
geous imagery of Scripture, which throws an ineffable 
splendor around the abode of the righteous. But if we 



MOTHERS HOME IN HE A VEN. 261 

are left to conjecture in regard to the particular location 
of that ^' house of many mansions," prepared for the 
redeemed, we are not left in doubt as to the nature and 
employments of the place. 

And here I would remark, that we have abundant 
reason to beheve, from tlie many declarations of Scrip- 
ture as to the appearance and structure of the place, 
that it is invested with a lofty ]3hysical grandeur. Ad- 
mitting that it is a place, and keeping in view the 
object for which it was provided, and the resources and 
skill of the Architect of the structure, we would natur- 
ally conceive it to be possessed of exalted excellence. 
The monarch who wields the sceptre of earthly empire, 
does not make his largest expenditures upon the im- 
provement of his provinces and cities farthest from the 
seat of royalty ; on the contrary, the style and structure 
of his palace, and the adornments of the imperial city, 
will share more largely in his munificence than any 
other portions of his dominions. The place where the 
powers of government reside, and the interests of state 
are shaped, is generally made attractive, and in most 
instances honored with higher decorations than any 



262 MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

other. And is it not our privilege to believe tliat the 
home which the Ruler of the universe has fitted up for 
his children, will be clothed with a more excellent glory 
than any other part of his dominions ? Such an infer- 
ence is not more natural than we believe it to be just ; 
for the imagery which ins^Diration employs to represent 
heaven, is always of a glowing character. Our Savior 
himself speaks of it under the idea of a vast structure 
containing many apartments. ^' In my Father's house 
are many mansions ; if it were not so, I would have 
told you. I go to prepare a place for you." And if he 
who fashioned the heavens and the earth has fitted up 
that abode, will it not correspond with the character of 
his other works ? And are not all his creations beauti- 
ful ? There is a beauty in the winged cloud and in the 
circling wave ! There is a beauty in the setting sun, 
and in the dawn of day! There is beauty in the 
warbling streamlet and its spotted tribes ! There is 
beauty in the forest, in the field, in the dew-drop, and 
in the ocean ! Look out. upon the earth, and see ! I& 
it not beautiful, though it rests under the curse ? With 
what a ravishing glory does it roll forth to our view, 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA YEN. 263 

clothed in that rich and varied robe which nature puts 
on in spring. Behold the mountains and continents, 
rivers and seas, all are arrayed with a grandeur that 
delights and charms the observer. But if the glorious 
Maker of all things has given so many visible displays 
of his power and goodness, and clothed with glory the 
sun, the moon, and the stars, and covered the whole 
creation with so many visible beauties, may we not rest 
confidently assured that the home of his chosen ones is 
invested with a transcendent glory ? His own presence 
will make it glorious beyond conception. For while 
his glory gleams from every star, and shines in every 
sun, and is sung in every anthem of nature, all the 
brightness, goodness, and excellence scattered through 
the universe are only rays or emanations Avhich have 
gone out from him, as the infinite centre of all that is 
lovely and glorious. 

The physical glory of the place may also be 
inferred from the names by which it is known. Heaven 
is called the Paradise of God. The Eden where Adam 
and Eve dwelt when garnished with a rare excellence, 
A garden watered by four rivers, adorned with flowers 



264 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

and fountains, and peopled with every object tliat could 
excite pleasurable emotions; and yet was it only an 
emblem of our future home. The apostle John de- 
scribes the ^ew Jerusalem as a city built of the most 
costly materials. ^' Its foundations were garnished 
with all manner of precious stones, and with walls of 
jasper." " A city of pure gold, and with gates of solid 
pearls." " And the glory of the nations was brought 
into it." '' And a river of water clear as crystal flow- 
ing from the throne of God." " And in the midst 
of the street thereof, and on either side of the river, was 
there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of 
fruits, and yielded her fruit every month ; and the leaves 
thereof were for the healing of the nations." " And 
there shall be no night there." And thus, also, in all 
the other inspired books where heaven is spoken of, do 
we find it rej)resented under the most brilliant emblems. 
The material creation is laid under contribution for 
images descriptive of the physical grandeur of that 
blessed abode. And who can doubt that the most sub- 
lime and gorgeous figures will fall short of the reality ? 
ITay, its blessedness and glory will far transcend even 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 265 

the high-wrought imagery of Inspiration. For how- 
ever well-conceived and graphic any representation of 
it may he, the figure is but a shadow, and can never 
rise to a full conception of the object which it is design- 
ed to image. Could the pencil of Raphael have 
transferred the living grandeur of E'iagara upon the 
canvas ? Can any artist paint an evening sunset with 
its appropriate gorgeousness and the mellowing beauty 
of its vanishing glories ? And if not, why should it 
appear marvellous that the glowing descriptions of 
heaven cannot adequately or fully acquaint us with its 
actual perfections. The skill and resources of Jehovah 
have been laid out upon it. Man has constructed ele- 
gant palaces, and wrought many attractive things ; but 
God did not commit the preparation of that mansion to 
man nor angels, but his own hand has fashioned it ; and, 
therefore, it is doubtless true even of the physical ex- 
cellencies of the home of the pure that " eye hath not 
seen, ear hath not heard ; neither hath it entered into 
the heart of man to conceive what God hath laid up 
for those who love him." 

But the future home of Christians is also possessed 



266 MOTHERS HOME IN HEA YEN. 

of a moral glory. It is an abode of spotless purity. 
This holiness of heaven is represented under the image 
of light. Light is the only material substance that is 
altogether pure. Gold is not perfectly free from impur- 
ities ; and the gems which sparkle in the imperial crown 
are not as pure as the sunbeams which they reflect. 
Light may pass through an impure medium, and fall 
upon the stagnant and foul pool without being tarnish- 
ed. And since it is not only perfectly pure, but warms 
and illumes the world, it is used as an image of 
piety and hohness. 

And as the purity and the blessings of light made 
it a fit emblem in the estimation of inspired writers to 
represent the nature and eflects of religion, so also for 
the same reason is it appropriately used to describe the 
purity and felicity of heaven. Hence it is written, 
" And there shall be no night there." J^o physical 
night, no darkness, shall ever mantle the celestial 
fields ; no intellectual night, no errors of judgment, no 
fallacious conclusions of the reasoning faculties. But 
above all, there will be no moral night. All the angels 
are holy. And as to the saints, they are like Christ ; 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 267 

bearing his image,, and reflecting his glorious holiness, 
as tlie planets reflect the light of the sun. "He is able 
to present you faultless before the presence of his glory 
with exceeding joy." " Then," said the Savior, '' shall 
the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of 
the Father." '' They that be wise shall shine as the 
brightness of the firmament, and as the stars forever 
and ever." " They shall walk with me in white, for 
they are worthy." " The sufferings of this present 
time," says the apostle, " are not worthy, to be compar- 
ed to the glory which shall be revealed in us." These 
and many other passages represent to us the holiness of 
the saints. They are holy as God is holy. And what 
an inconceivable moral splendor must, therefore, clothe 
that heavenly world ! What a dignity and glory would 
cover the earth, were all its inhabitants morally pure I 
But alas ! it is not so here ; for this world is a moral 
waste, with here and there a flower waked into bloom 
by the quickening power of Divine grace. This earth 
is a land of storms and tempests, of tears and woes. 
Here we groan, being burdened with many imperfec- 
tions, and oppressed with many trials. One calamity 



268 MO THEE S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

after another sweeps with desolating power over those 
cherished spots where we rejoiced ni the light of earthly 
prosperity; and we move about in that circle once 
radiant with joys, and vocal with voices forever hushed 
on earth, and fill it with our lamentations, and water it 
with our tears. Here we are continually reminded of 
the evil of sin, and the miseries w^ith which it embitters 
life. But yonder we shall have passed beyond the 
reach of its influence ; for in that home of bliss there 
is no curse, no sin, no sorrow, no death. 

It is also a happy and glorious home. There there 
is perfect harmony, and, therefore, perfect peace. E^o 
chsturbing element can enter there to conflict with our 
happiness. Here we are never secure against those 
numerous external evils and internal corruptions which 
mar our tranquillity and disturb the peace of our souls. 
But as all those influences which agitate and afilict our 
spirits are caused by sin, and as in heaven we shall be 
perfectly holy, we shall also be perfectly happy. And 
besides the absence of all disturbing causes and jarring 
elements, the saints are also in possession of all that 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 269 

can possibly contribute to the enjoyment of a rational 
being. 

But it is also a glorious home in view of the society 
of the place, and the relations they sustain to each 
other. The apostles speak of heaven as a house, a 
city, a commonwealth, or association of believers, 
" For we know that if our earthly house of this taber- 
nacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a 
house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." 

Among: the elements which will enter into our 
happiness in that blessed home, the employments in 
which we shall engage will constitute a large item. To 
me it has always seemed an erroneous supposition that 
the activities of the saints are wholly taken up in acts 
of praise and contemplations of the perfections of 
Deity. That these exercises will enter largely into their 
occupations is morally certain ; but that they are the 
only and exclusive employments does not appear prob- 
able. There are many other methods besides this con- 
templation through which the excellency of the divine 
character may be discovered and admired. The history 
of creation will be an absorbing theme of interest and 



270 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

study. For mth it are associated the grandeur, the 
might, the wisdom, and goodness of God. The extent 
and duration of his kingdom and being, the profundity 
of his counsels, and the sublimity of his power and 
glory, are all brought under review in the volume of 
creation. Communications from those sons of light 
who were spectators of that event may be imparted to 
the saints. And add to this the fact that God will 
throw open to the inspection of his children the entire 
universe, and permit them to visit all the worlds that 
move in cloudless majesty through his vast dominions, 
and what sublime lessons will the mind learn as it 
sweeps over that field of immensity, studded with the 
maofnificent creations of Jehovah ! If the cultivated 
mind already derives its most exalted pleasures from 
devout astronomical studies, will it not experience in- 
Unitely greater delight, then, in viewing the motions 
and listening to the melodies of the spheres ? And as 
the grandeur of God's creations was the frequent theme 
of prophets and inspired writers in general, and as 
nothing which they have written impresses the mind 
with a liveher sense of the might and majesty of the 



MO TREES HOME IN HE A VEN. 271 

great Architect than their allusions to, and descriptions 
of, the vast materiahsm which he has fashioned, so is 
it reasonable to infer that our impressions of, the great- 
ness of Jehovah will he proportionahly increased as our 
conceptions of the extent and magnificence of his em- 
pire will be enlarged. We cherish it, then, as a precious 
conviction that those heavens into whose holy depths 
our eyes have so often and admiringly peered will he- 
come accessible to our spirits, and that it will be our 
jDrivilege to survey and explore all the worlds with 
which they are peoj^led, as we now do the earth upon 
which we dwell. 

Then our heavenly home will abide forever — it is 
eternal. This is its crowning excellence. That which 
greatly depreciates the value of the most desirable 
earthly possessions, and honors, and distinctions, is 
their liability to pass away ; yea, the inevitable destruc- 
tion which awaits them. Decay and death are im- 
printed upon all things. Among the properties which 
enter into the constitution of earthly objects, we neither 
find permanence nor indestructibility. God has im- 
j)ressed mutability upon all the works of man. Ko 



272 MOTHER'S HOME W HEA YEN. 

■magniiicent city that he has built, no stately pile nor 
towering' pyramid which his genius has planned and 
his industry has executed, but hath either crumbled into 
a heap of mine, or has upon it the marks of decay. 
^N'o, not the most costly and durable monument of mar- 
ble or of brass will remain exempt from this inevitable 
doom. Man himself is an illustration of this frailty of 
human things; "for his days are as the grass, as a 
ilower of the field he fiourisheth ; for the wind passeth 
over it, and it is gone, and the place that knew it shall 
know it no more forever." " Our fathers, where are 
they?" ''And the prophets, do they live forever?" 
Alas ! what millions have gone down into the tomb, 
and what precious treasures does this earth hold over to 
the resurrection morn ! Look we at our firesides and 
households ; our families are growing less. 

" Friend after friend departs, 
Who has not lost a friend !" 

The most lovely and happily-conditioned family 
has germinating within it, the seeds of death and disso- 
lution. But the Christian dies but once, and dying, 
lives forever. We can stand by our deserted family 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 273 

altars, and desolate liearths, and look u^d to our future 
glorious home, already occupied by our sainted friends, 
and rejoice, that decay and blight never fall upon the 
Christian's home in heaven. 

Xo, it is permanent. Its foundations are laid in 
the immutability of Jehovah — its walls are immortal- 
ity, its gates praise, and its day eternity. There it 
stands in its peerless glory, the metropolis of the uni- 
verse, luminous with the light of God. And amid all 
the changes which may sweep with desolating power 
over thrones and kingdoms, it will stand radiant with 
salvation, and remain unshaken and unimpaired, 

amid — 

'' The wreck of matter 
And the crash of worlds." 

And may not those who have furnished inmates 
for that glorious home — who have watched by the pil- 
low of the dying whom they loved, until their spirits 
took wing for that place of rest, derive comfort from 
the assurance that they are supremely blest ! O you 
would not, if you could, my bereaved brother, or sister, 
silence one of the harps of heaven by bringing back 



274 MOTHERS HOME IN HE A YEN. 

the spirit whose hand sweeps it to the praise of the 
Eedeemer! ISTay, the more joii contemplate the glory 
of that home, and the blessedness of its occupants, the 
more you will become reconciled to the most painful 
bereavements ; while the hope of entering there, will ex- 
cite you to unremitted diligence to obtain that purity 
of heart, without which we cannot see God. Aged 
disciple, thou art near thy home; and oh, such a home ! 
Labor patiently, thou man of toil, and wait calmly, for 
thy Eedeemer draweth nigh ! Weary, afflicted, desolate 
one, drink the cup which a Father's hand gives, for thy 
night of sorrow is fast passing away ; for behold, the 
dawn of an eternal day of glory is now breaking. 




MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 275 



THE MOIOTTAmS OF LIFE. 

James G. Clark, 

THEEE'S a land far away, mid the stars, we are told, 
Where they know not the sorrows of time ; 
"Where the pure waters wander through valleys of gold, 

And life is a treasure sublime ; 
'Tis the land of our God, 'tis the home of the soul, 
Where ages of splendor eternally roll ; — 
Where the way-weary traveler reaches his goal 
On the evergreen mountains of life. 

Our gaze cannot soar to that beautiful land. 

But our visions have told of its bliss. 
And our souls by the gale from its gardens are fanned 

When we faint in the deserts of this. 
And we sometimes have longed for its holy rej)ose. 
When our spirits were torn with temptations and woes. 
And we've drank from the tide of the river that flows 
From the evergreen mountains of life. 



276 MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 

! the stars never tread the blue heavens at night 

But we think where the ransomed have trod ; 
And the day never smiles from its palace of light 

But we feel the bright smile of our God. 
We are traveling homeward, through changes and gloom, 
To a kingdom where pleasures unchangingly bloom, 
And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb 
From the evergreen mountains of life. 



HEEEAFTEE. 

f ^T^IS sweet to think hereafter, 

JL. When the spirit leaves this sphere, 
Love on deathless wings shall waft her 

To those she long hath mourned for here I 
Hearts from which 'twas death to sever, 

Eyes this world can ne'er restore, 
There as warm, as bright as ever. 

Shall meet us and be lost no more. 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEA YEN. 277 



THE HOME OYEH THERE. 

-D. W. D. Huntington. 

OH, tliink of the home over there, 
By the side of the river of hght, 
Where the saints all immortal and fair, 
Are robed in their garments of white ! 

Oh, think of the friends over there, 
Who before us the journey have trod. 

Of the songs that they breathe on the air, 
In their home in the palace of God ! 

I'll soon be at home over there. 

For the end of my journey I see ; 
Many dear to my heart, over there, 

Are watching and waiting for me. 



278 MOTHERS HOME IN HEA VEK 

"HOME IS WHEEE MOTHER IS." 

WILEN the toils and cares of the clay are over, and 
the children are at home from school, then 
comes the most delightful hour to the family circle. 
The outside world is dismissed, and father, and mother, 
and children are together in sweet communion and un- 
shaken trust. There is no vacant chair. There is not 
a face missing. Death has never visited this home. 
The hour of retiring comes, and hlessed with father's 
instructions and mother's prayers, the httle group retire 
for the night. May it not be that angels hover over 
such a home during the silent watches. 

But sickness comes. The mother is prostrated ; a 
physician is called, but he gives no hope. Friends 
gather about the bed and look sadly on while the 
mother passes through the valley and shadow of death. 
The dreadful hour is over at last, and she is dead. 
IsTight comes on again, and a lonely watch is kept. 
How changed this home ! What now is the " evening 
hour," and what must it be in all time to come? 

Little children know no one so dear as mother ; 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 279 

they long for none so much, and even up to adult age — 

" Mother, dear mother, my heart calls for you !" 

The beautiful carrier-pigeons dart through the 

air like arrows at the rate of forty miles an hour, 

" going home." The little bird is a dear lover of home, 

and perils everything to get there. And so with all 

human kind — 

" There is no place like home ; 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." 

And when from the family circle the mother is called 

away, the hearts of the children naturally turn toward 

that land where — 

" Sickness, sorrow, pain, and death 
Are felt and feared no more. " 
And however much they may shrink at " death's 

alarms," there is a strong feeling that henceforth " their 
home" is in heaven. 

" I am going home to die no more," 
was her parting blessing to her loved ones. 
" A home in heaven, 
What a joyful thought !" 
When mother is dead, and father is dead, and 
the family are scattered, there can be but one hope 



280 MOTHERS HOME IN HEA VEX 

and expectation of a family reunion. The manliness, 

and dignity, and industry of the father are things never 

to be forgotten, and his counsels have saved us many 

a blunder, but — 

'^ No love like mother-love, 
Ever was known." 
And at that future family reunion we hope for, mother 

will be nearest and dearest of all. 

Many a motherless and homeless child strays from 

the paths of right. 'No one knows so well as a 

mother how to guide the little feet. How lone and sad 

the motherless child ; with, perhaps, no home, and no 

abiding friendships, or love, " in all the land," the heart 

at last turns towards — 

" The home of the soul, 
Where mother is waiting and watching." 

Like the uncaged carrier-bird, the soul longs for 
home. 

Mrs. Sigourney vividly portrays a scene where a 
little girl is passing through the dark valley and shadow 

of death — 

'' She told her faith in Jesus — 
Her simple prayer was said ; 



MO THERS HOME IN HE A YEN. 281 

And now that darkened vail she trod 
Which leadeth to the dead. 

^' Yet mid the gasp and struggle, 

With shuddering lips she cried 
^'0 mother, dearest mother, 
Bury me by your side !' 

^'One only wish she uttered, 
While life was ebbing fast, — 
' Sleep by my side, dear mother, 
And rise with me at last.' " 
Death itself seemed unable to separate them. Her 
thoughts, and feelings, and hopes were all of her 
mother ; and the gloom of the grave and fear of the 
future were overshadowed in the comforting thought 
that mother would go along through it all, and would, 
" Rise with me at last." 
Home is where mother is, let that be among— 
" The sepulchres of our departed," 
or in — 

" The far-away home of the soul." 
As the carrier-dove soars aloft, and surveys— 
*' The landscape o'er," 



282 MOTHER'S HOME IN HE A VEN. 

and then speeds away home, so many a loved, and 

weary, and afflicted one gladly leaves — 

" This land of sin and sorrow," 

for mother's home beyond the stars. What delight in 

that thought, and that rapturous hope, as it brightens 

into fruition, and the heart cries out — 

"Oh, joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the beautiful river, 
The angel of death shall carry me." 



"THEEE IS A WORLD ABOVE." 

THEEE is a world above. 
Where parting is unknown ; 
A long eternity of love, 

Formed for the good alone ; 
And faith beholds the dying here. 
Translated to that glorious sphere. 



310 THEE' S HOME IN HE A YEN. 28S 



MY MOTIIEE'S GEAYE. 



John Scott, D. D. 

" Y motlier's grave ! a sacred spot, 
Where oft affection weeps ! 
Her form can never be forgot, 
"Which there in silence sleeps. 



M 



That sacred spot I visit oft, 

And shed the falling tear, 
And weeping, think of her I love, — 

Of her I love so dear. 

My mother's form, my mother's name. 
My mother's voice and prayer 

Come clustering, as they never came. 
Around my s^^irit there. 

Hoher to me than temple shade, 
Though mute the harp and song, 

The place where low her form is laid^ 
I loved so dear and long. 



284 MOTHERS HOME IN HEA VEN, 

I know, though hidden from my sight, 

Iler spn^it hngers near ; 
Her gentle spirit, pure as hght, 

Looks smiling on me here. 

Calmly in death let me repose, 

Beside her form I love ; 
Together rest, together rise, 

Together reign above. 



BEYOISTD the river's brink we'll lay 
The cross that here is given, 
And bear the crown of life away, 
And love still more in heaven. 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 285 

" SHALL WE KIsTOW EACH OTHER THERE r 

WHEN" we hear the music ringing 
Li the bright celestial dome, 
Wlien sweet angels' voices, singing, 

Gladly bid us welcome home 
To the land of ancient story, 

AYliere the spirit knows no care — 
In that land of hfe and glory — 
Shall we know each other there ? 

When the holy angels meet us, 

As we go to join their band, 
Shall we know the friends that greet us 

In that glorious spirit land ? 
Shall we see the same eyes shining 

On us as in days of yore ? 
Shall we feel the dear arms twining 

Fondly round us as before ? 

Yes, my earth- worn soul rejoices. 
And my weary heart grows lights 



286 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN'. 



For the tlirilling angel voices, 
And the angel faces bright, 

That shall welcome us in heaven. 
Are the loved ones long ago ; 

And to them 'tis kindly given 

Thus their mortal friends to know. 

Oh, ye weary, sad, and tossed ones, 

Droop not, fail not by the way ! 
Ye shall join the loved and just ones 

In that land of perfect day. 
Harp- strings touched by angel fingers. 

Murmured in my rapturous ear ; — 
Evermore their sweet song lingers — 

'' We shall know each other there." 




MOTHERS HOME IN HEA VEN. 287 



HOME OF THE SOUL. 

Mrs. Ellen H. Gates. 

I WILL sing you a song of that beautiful land, 
The far-away home of the soul, 
Where no storms ever beat on the glittering strand, 
While the years of eternity roll. 

Oh, that home of the soul in my visions and dreams, 

Its bright, jasper walls I can see; 
Till I fancy but thinly the vail intervenes 

Between the fair city and me. 

Oh, how sweet it will be in that beautiful land. 

So free from all sorrow and pain, 
With songs on our lips and with harps in our hands, 

To meet one another again. 



288 MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. ' 

CROSSmG OYEE. 

IT may be that the loved of our homes who have 
gone on before are watching and waiting for us^ 
and that when the hour of death shall come, they will 
not be far away. There are many events that have 
transpired at death's door illustrating and proving thi& 
beautiful thought. It is no inconsiderable thing for a 
suffering child to believe that a sainted mother will be 
near when death comes. Mother's name is the dearest 
of all earthly names, and in the saddest hours of life 
the child turns to her. I was at the bedside of a 
suffering woman, years ago, and although she was her- 
self a wife and mother, when the gloom of death gathered 
around her, she called aloud for her own sainted mother. 
''Mother, dear mother, my heart calls for you !" 
And so when death comes, mother is dearer, and 
perhaps nearer, than any other one we have ever known. 
And when we approach Jordan's brink, she will be 
there to go with us over. This thought is illustrated 
by the following truthful and touching incident : — 

" A little girl, a lovely and precious child, lost her 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 289 

mother at an age too early to lix the loved features in 
her remembrance. She Avas as frail as beautiful ; and 
as the bud of her heart unfolded, it seemed as if, won 
by her mother's prayers, to turn instinctively heaven- 
ward. She was the idol of the family ; but she faded 
away early. She Avould lie upon the lap of a friend 
who bestowed a mother's kind care upon her, and 
winding one wasted arm about her neck, would say, 
'^N^ow tell me about my mamma.' And when the 
oft-repeated tale was told, she would say softly, ' Take 
me into the parlor, I want to see my mamma.' The 
request was never refused, and the affectionate child 
would lie for hours contentedly gazing on her mother's 

portrait. But — 

" Pale and wan she grew, and weakly, 
Bearing all her pains so meekly, 
That to them she still grew dearer, 
As the trial-hour grew nearer." 
'' That hour came at last, and the Aveeping friends 
assembled to see the little child die. The dew of death 
was already on the fiower as its life's sun was going 
down. The little chest heaved spasmodically. 'Do 
you know me, darhng?' sobbed the voice that Avas 



290 MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 

dearest ; but it awoke no answer. All at once a bright- 
ness, as if from the upper world, burst over the child's 
colorless features. The eyelids flashed open, the lips 
parted, the wan, cuddling hands flew up in the little 
one's last impulsive effort, as she looked piercingly 
into the far-above. 'Mother!' she cried with surprise 
and transport, and passed Avith that breath to her 
mother's bosom." * 

" When my final farewell to the world I have said, 

And gladly lie down to my rest ; 
When softly the watchers shall sa}^, ' He is dead,' 

And fold my pale hands o'er my breast ; 
And when with my glorified vision at last 

The walls of that city I see, 
Will any one then, at the beautiful gate, 

Be watching and waiting for me ? 
There are old and forsaken who linger a while 

In the homes that their dearest have left, 
And a few gentle words or an action of love 

May cheer their sad spirits bereft ; 
But the reaper is near to the long-standing corn, 

The weary will soon be set free ; 
Will any of them, at the beautiful gate, 

Be watching and waiting for me?" 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA YEN. 291 



MY MOTHER AT THE GATE. 

THERE'S many a lovely picture 
Oil memory's silent wall, 
There's many a elierisliecl image 

That I tenderly recall. 
The sweet home of my childhood, 

With its singing brooks and birds ; 
The friends who grew beside me, 

With their loving looks and words ; 
The flowers that decked the wild wood, 

The roses fresh and sweet, 
'The bluebells and the daisies. 

That blossomed at my feet ; 
All, all are very precious, 

And often come to me. 
Like breezes from a better land. 

Beyond life's troubled sea. 
But the sweetest, dearest picture 

That menaory can create. 



292 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

Is the image of my mother, 
My mother at the gate. 

It is there I see her standing, 

With her face so pure and fair, 
With the sunhght and the shadows 

On her snowy cap and hair ; 
I can feel the soft warm pressure 

Of the hand that clasped my own ;. 
I can see the look of fondness 

That in her blue eyes shone ; 
I can hear her parting blessing 

Through the lapse of weary years ;. 
I can see through all my sorrows 

Her own sweet, silent tears. 
Ah ! amid the darkest trials 

That have mingled with my fate,, 
I have turned to that dear image. 

My mother at the gate. 

But she has crossed the river. 
She is with the angels now ;, 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 293 

She has laid aside earth's crosses, 

And the crown is on her brow ; 
She is clothed in clean white hnen, 

And she walks the streets of gold. 
O, loved one, safe forever, 

Within the Savior's fold, 
]^o sorrowing thoughts can reach thee, 

IN'o grief is thine to-day ; 
•God gives thee joy for mourning, 

Thy tears are wiped away, 
Thou art waiting in that city 

Where the saints and angels Avait, 
And ril know thee, dearest mother, 

When I reach the Pearly Gate. 

— Anonymous. 




294 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 



M 



MY MOTHER. 

Belle Bush. 

"Y mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the 
Holy Evangels ; 
There she feels neither sorrow nor pain, and treads not 

the path of the weary. 
Years ago, in the bud of my being, I knew her a radi- 
ant mortal, 
But the house of her soul decayed, and she fled from 

the crumbling mansion. 
And over the sea of eternity, bridged by the hands of 

the angels. 
Uniting the hnks of behef, with the golden chain of 

repentance. 
She passed with the torch of prayer, to the opposite 

shore in safety. 
When crowned with the garlands of love, she mounted 

the steps of the city. 
Angels of mercy and tnith^ keeping watch at the 

heavenly portals. 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 295 

Beheld her approach from afar, and flung open the 

pearly partitions ; 
With songs and loud hallelujahs, they welcomed the 

earth-ransomed stranger. 
And guided her steps, till she stood on the brink of 

the life-giving fountain, 
Where tasting its lethean waters, all the joys of the 

world were forgotten. 
Save the beautiful bloom of the soul — the love in the 

heart of the mother. 
This, the light of her life upon earth, now budded and 

blossomed in heaven ; 
Stately and fair it towered, and the hues of its leaves 

were immortal; 
Strong tendrils grew out from each bough, and twined 

round the cords of her spirit, 
While the zephyrs of Paradise played, and toyed with 

the delicate branches. 
Till each leaf like a harp-string swayed, and murmured 

in strains ^olian. 
And often in musical numbers reminded the Avondering 

mother 



296 MOTHER'S HOME I^ HE A VEN. 

Of tlie flowers she had left in the desert — her weary 
and sorrowing children. 

In their half-open leaflets she reads the pledge of her 
glorions mission, 

And rejoices that her love should gather those earth 
huds to her hosom. 

The angels beheld her in gladness rise up on those ra- 
diant pinions 

Which float on the air like a sunbeam, and rival the 
dove in their fleetness. 



Oh, my mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is tlie 

Holy Evangels ; 
But she comes on her soft floating pinions to look for 

her earth-born children. 
She comes, and the hearts that were weary no longer 

remember their sorrow 
In their joy that the lost is returned, our beloved and 

radiant mother; 
She comes, and our spirits rejoice, for we know she's our 

guardian angel, 



MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 297 

O'er our journey in life keeping wateli, and giving us 

gentle caresses. 
She comes, she -comes with the light that opens the gate 

of the morning ; 
Her robes are of delicate pink, sweet emblem of holy 

affection — 
And her voice is our music by night, of perils and 

storms giving warning — 
And twined o'er her radiant brow are the amaranth- 
blossoms of heaven. 
She smiles, and the light of her smiles bringeth joy in 

our seasons of darkness ; 
She Avhispers, and soft are the zephyrs that echo her 

musical numbers, 
As they waft o'er the chords of our being her thrilling 

and fervent emotions. 
We listen to her in our sorrow, and yield to each gentle 

impression. 
Till pleasant to us is the path leading down to the 

rushing river ; 
O'er the swift rolling current of death we shall pass to 

the homes of the spirits. 



298 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEA VEN. 

And waiting beside the still waters, our mother will be' 
there to greet us ; 

With songs she will welcome our coming, and fold us 
to rest on her bosom, 

And teach us, like lisping children, to muj^mur the lan- 
guage of heaven ! 

Oh, my mother's a beautiful spirit, and her home is the 
Holy Evangels, 

But she comes on the pinions of love to watch her sor- 
rowing children ; 

She comes, and the shadows depart, as we thrill to her 
gentle caresses. 

Our Father in Heaven, we bless thee, that our mother's 
our Guardian Angel. 




A 



MOTHER'S H03IE IN HEAVEN. . 299 

THE SPIRIT MOTHER. 

Susan Pindar. 

RT thou near me, spirit mother, 
AYheii in the twihght hour. 



A holy hush pervades my heart 

With a mysterious power ; 
While eyes of dreamy tenderness 

Seem gazing into mine, 
And stir the fountains of my soul, — 

Sweet mother, are they thine ? 

Is thine the blessed iniiuence 

That o'er my being flings 
A sense of rest, as though 'twas wrapped 

Within an angel's wings ? 
A deep abiding trustfulness, 

That seems an earnest given 
Of future happiness and peace 

To those who dwell in heaven. 

And often when my footsteps stray 

III error's shining track, 
There conies a soft restraining voice, 



300 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

That seems to call me back ; 
I hear it not with outward ears, 

But with a power divine 
Its whisper thrills my inmost soul ; 

Sweet mother, is it thine ? 

It well may he, for know we not 

That beings all unseen 
Are ever hovering o'er our paths. 

The earth and sky between ? 
They're with us in our daily walks, 

And tireless vigils keep 
To weave those happy fantasies 

That bless our hours of sleep ! 

Oh, could we feel that spirit eyes 

Forever on us gaze, 
And watch each idle thought that threads 

The heart's bewildering maze; 
Would we not guard each careless word, 

All sinful feelings quell. 
Lest we should grieve the cherished ones 

We loved on earth so well ? 



MOTHERS HOME IN HEA VEN. 301 



HOME. 

A CHILD, speaking to a friend of his home, wa& 
asked: "Where is your home?" Looking up 
with loving eyes at his mother, he re]3Hed, " Where 
mother is." Home ! " What a hallowed name I How 
full of enchantment and how dear to the heart ! Home 
is the magic circle within which the weary spirit finds 
refuge ; it is the sacred asylum to which the care-worn 
heart retreats to find rest from the toils and cares of 
life. Home ! That name touches every fiber of our 
soul. Nothing hut death can break its spell." And^ 
as dear as home can be, is the mother that presided 
over it, and that we loved. Long years may have 
fiown since we saw that home, and since the dearest of 
all earthly friends has slept the long and silent sleep of 
death ; but that home and that mother will never cease 
to awaken the sweetest recollections of our lives. 
" Home, Sweet Home !" 
Some years ago twenty thousand people gathered 
in the old Castle Garden, New York, to hear Jenny 



302 MOTHER'S HOME IN HEAVEN. 

Lincl sing, as no other songstress ever had sung, the 

sublime compositions of Beethoven, Handel, etc. At 

length, the Swedish ]^ighthigale thought of her home, 

paused and seemed to fold her wings for a higher 

flight. She began, with deep emotion, to pour forth, 

"■ Home, Sweet Home." The audience could not stand 

it. An uproar of applause stopped the music. Tears 

gusl::d from the eyes of that vast multitude like rain. 

After a moment, the song came again, seemingly as 

from heaven — almost angelic, "Home, Sweet Home!" 

That was the word that bound, as Avith a spell, twenty 

thousand souls, and Howard Payne triumphed over the 

great masters of song. 

Home of my childhood ! We are folded again in 

mother's arms. She is again leaning over us, and 

hathing our forehead and cooling our fevered brow. 

But, alas ! that mother is no longer in that home. She 

has gone to live with the angels. But there is another 

home, a home beyond the stars ; and mother has gone to 

live, " Where they know not the sorrows of time." 

" Up to that world of light, 
Take us, dear Savior ; 



MOTHERS HOME IX HEAVEN. 



303 



May we all there unite, 

Happy, forever. 
Where kindred spirits dwell, 
There may our music swell, 
And time our joys dispel- 
Never — no, never." 
Heaven is the home that awaits us beyond the 
grave. At the best estate, we are only pilgrims here. 
Heaven is our eternal home. Death wiU never knock 
at the door of that mansion. " Parents rejoice very 
much when, on Christmas day, or on Thanksgiving 
day, they have their children at home ; but there is al- 
most always a son or a daughter absent from the 
country, or from the world." But, oh! how glad we 
will be when we are ah at home, all safe at home. 
Once there, let earthly sorrows howl like storms, and 
swell like seas. Home! Let thrones decay and em- 
pires wither. Home ! Let the world die in earth- 
quake struggles, and be buried amid the procession of 
planets and dirge of spheres. Home ! Let everlasting 
ages roU in irresistible sweep. Home ! Ko sorrow, no 
crying, no death, but home, sweet home. Beautiful 
home! Everlasting home! Home with each other! 



304 MOTHERS HOME IN HEAVEN. 

Home with tlie angels! Home with God! Home 
with mother! Home! Home! By the grace of the 
dear Master, may we all get home. 

'• I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 
Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold, 

And list to the sound of the boatman's oar; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the snowy sail, 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
I shall pass from sight, wdth the boatman pale, 

To the better shore of the spirit land. 
I shall know the loved who have goi>e before; 

And joyfully sw^eet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The angel of death shall carry me." 
Adieu, reader. Here w^e lay down our pen, Init 
here we do not end our meditations. Our thoughts, 
and feelings, and hopes crowed onward still. 







'^■^':i 









.^J^lAi'A • 



^■^ 




